Roll the die
by mistspinner
Summary: The Death Note was never found, but life goes on. It's graduation, and Mello considers his options. T for violence, language. Constructive criticism would be lovely.
1. I

Long after the children are put to bed, the lights will turn on and the music start on the third story of Wammy House tonight. There will be tasteless banners, congratulatory smiles, perhaps even wine and champagne, though it's certain that the children will manage to steal some. They will all be there, of course: Roger, Wedy, Aiber – who will probably have to change their appearance due to the boisterous FBI agents there to preen and parade – and, of course, L. There will be toasts and cheers, good-natured advice dispensed at leisure, wine-induced stories told late into the night – all wasted, of course, on the guest of honor.

Mello knows all this, has known it all for weeks, and yet, as he leans back against the iron-wrought fence surrounding the orphanage, he scowls. It's a black, moonless, night, and there's no need for taboo where the darkness will wash everything away from expectant eyes. Here, he can disappear, become nothing more than a dark figure silhouetted against the lights below, and it's a wonderfully free feeling.

Taking a bite out of his chocolate bar, Mello shifts the brown parcel underneath his arm to one hand and gives a sigh of relief. Graduation parties were always a tawdry affair at Wammy House, with overlong, garish streamers dangling from balconies, cheap crepe paper draped on every available surface, and despite the harsh, jagged-glass wind and the cold seeping through ragged leather, he can't help congratulating himself, just a little. _Ha, Near.__I guess finally beat you at something after all._

A sharp snap broke the night as Mello bit off another piece of chocolate. For a moment, he stands there, a lone figure barely visible against the black of the night, watching the lights dancing below him. Involuntarily, the hand around the parcel tightened, just a little, almost as if giving a reassuring squeeze.

It wasn't that Mello disliked parties in general; unlike many of the other children at Wammy House, the idea of socialization and free food had never frightened him terribly. When he'd been younger, the celebrations had always been the highlight of his year. Weeks in advance, he would be tiptoeing upstairs to peek at the preparations, plotting elaborate schemes with Matt to sneak in, and harassing the older (and much more apathetic) kids for information, too deliriously happy to see their derision. Life, and all its possibility, had boiled up to the surface like the bubbles in the contraband champagne he and Matt had stolen, and had bubbled and fizzed in his mouth as he drank it in large, too-fast gulps.

At some point, though, he had grown up, and the bubbles had fizzed out, leaving nothing but an acidic aftertaste behind.

The wind howls, a plaintive wail rippling across the grass, and Mello pauses mid-bite, creamy chocolate halfway between his teeth. Long ago, he had lost his taste for such petty pleasures, and - like a medieval Crusader - had chose instead to concentrate on bigger picture. But it was _so_ tiring fighting all the time…

Well. What could he do then? Surrender, concede defeat?

A harsh, grating laugh forced its way out of Mello's throat, but his eyes were cold as his teeth closed around the chocolate.

Mello didn't believe in defeat.

Leaves capered across the dry, autumn grass, dancing in a disjointed, half-drunken rhythm, and as the wind blew blond strands of hair across his eyes, Mello let that thought fill his mind, melting saccharine sweet on his tongue. But there was only so far you could lie to yourself, and he had reached that limit long ago.

The problem was, Mello believed in facts. And the facts were thus:

Near had beaten him. After tonight, he would be the new L, and all Mello's twelve years of work, of never pouring over books at five in the morning… all his life, he'd been training to be L, and now… it was all futile.

Of course, Mello had plenty of options - any police force in the world would want him; he was a Wammy child, after all. He could work in a high, ranking, mediocre position under high ranking, mediocre men? Millions of people lusted for just that - for most, that would be enough, that would be success.

But not for a Wammy child. At Wammy, you were taught to separate yourself from mediocrity; to not be ordinary, but extraordinary; to crave not success, but victory.

And at Wammy, victory was L.

Well. So. Now what?

Absentmindedly, Mello stuck the chocolate into his mouth - only to find that he was chewing on a corner of aluminum. For a few moments, he stared at the shiny metal before his face slowly assumed a scowl.

Well, damn.

Crumbling the foil into a ball in his hands, Mello tossed the wrapper over the fence, the grass crackling sharply under his feet as he did so, Wammy's anti-littering procedures going to hell as the wad sunk into the grass. For people who were so cutthroat competitive about grades and homework, they were an oddly environmental group. Let's save the trees before stabbing each other in the back.

Well, you _had_ to be like that when you only had one option, one fling, one chance to roll the die and hope that you cast it right. And if you didn't, then you either gave up -

- or you stopped playing.

For years, Mello had refused to entertain such a thought; he had had but one goal, and he had been determined to reach it - he _would _beat Near, and nothing anybody else had said to him could persuade him otherwise. He'd seen it as just a prettified way of giving in - something that left you with a measure of dignity, yet was still technically a loss. But now the game was over and Near, the dirty cheat, had - by some sleight of hand - won, and well, when Mello thought about - it wasn't defeat, not really, just… choosing a different path, yes, that was it. Being original. Independent.

And so Mello had chosen.

Slowly, Mello unwrapped the object in his hands, and as the paper danced away from him, the faint light from the few stars in the sky cast a silvery, dull pallor on a hard, metal surface, like the shine of the foil of an unopened chocolate bar. Which fit, in an ironic sort of way, Mello thought, as he contemplates the gun in his hands, a hungry, expectant look in his eyes. There is a slight smile on his face, but - like everything else - it is washed away in the inky darkness and the howling wind.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**I'm new here, and this is my first fic; thus, it has not been beta-ed, which explains the general sappy-ness and melodrama. I'd love constructive critism, though.  
**


	2. II

A/N: It lives! After the longest hiatus in the history of the world, I have caught an elusive plot bunny! Now we'll just have to see how long I'm willing to stick with this whole endeavor.

"Hang on," Matt tells the girl beside him as the first techno beats sound from his pocket. As twelve hundred other students hurry past them, Matt stops beside a pillar, takes out his cell phone, and flips it open.

It's from Mello.

For a few moments he stares at the number in the screen, while in front of him, Hannah stands, blonde and tall and pretty, books clutched against her faded pink blouse. Politely waiting.

He stares at the phone for a few more moments. Students hurry pass, their chatter soft sounds that faded into the background.

He reads the text once, twice, three times. Then stops, exhales and flips shut the phone.

"We're going to be late," Hannah tells him.

"I'll catch up later," Matt tells her, waving a hand dismissively. Around them, the mill of students had dissipated, disappeared with their noise and laughter until all was left was a large, open silence. The sun shone onto the stone columns, bright in a blue sky.

"Harolds won't mind," Matt says, smiling a perfectly forged smile at Hannah, "so go on. I'll be back later." A blank face, an actor's portrayal of nonchalance.

Hannah hesitates, then, smiling unsurely, leaves.

And then he is all alone, alone with the sun and the silence and the soft _tweetle, tweet _of the robins.

Matt lights a cigarette.

Well. This was a development.

He stares for a while at the blue, blue sky, idly flicks ash into the yellowing grass. Lazy fall leaves slowly careened onto the perfectly even lawn.

Oxford, he realized, was beautiful in the fall.

He didn't need to go to college, of course, but he had wanted to, anyway. There were girls, after all, and college - normal people, normal society - had seemed a challenge quite different from the Byzantine mazes at Wammy's.

It hadn't been. But, then again, Matt always gotten on alright with people, had never been as socially stunted as many of Wammy's other students.

These days, he stayed at the Oxford for the other perks: girls, of course, and warm libraries, warm scones on cold days, and long, blue summer skies. And because, well, he had started to like the place - started to take an odd enjoyment in the boisterous energy and bottled excitement that pervaded the campus. The laughter.

Mello, of course, would have laughed at him for him; but then again, Mello was different, full of neither Near's apathy nor Matt's nonchalance. Matt remembered, once (and oh, God, it was like pulling the memory out of an old trunk), when they had been younger, before Near had come, Mello had asked him if he was jealous.

"Jealous?" he had asked. "Why the hell would I be jealous?"

"Because I'm number one," Mello told him. "Because I'll be L, and you won't."

Matt had stared at him then, wide green eyes incredulous.

"Why the _hell,_" he said, "would I be jealous of you for something like that?"

"You don't care, then?" Mello had asked, and now it was his turn to look incredulous.

"No."

"You should," Mello told him flatly. "But I guess it's good you don't, because then we can still be friends."

Friends. They'd been for, what, eleven, twelve years? - had come to Wammy's together, had been, for a time, extraordinary, precocious among the world's most precocious children - though, for course, it had always been Mello, Mello who had been just a little better, Mello who had been first, Mello who would be L -

And then Near had come.

Matt sighs, slowly sucks in nicotine and tar before blowing it out in a white cloud of smoke.

Friends.

He didn't want to leave. He had gone close to the students here, closer than he had gotten to anyone in a long, long time. And Hannah was here, too.

But friends were friends, and Mello had been his friend for far longer than anyone else.


	3. III

At first, he had been furious. In the moments between waking up and opening his eyes, he had wondered, of course, over the proverbial questions of God or gods, heaven or hell, or perhaps Limbo or Mu, pondered the eternal questions for long moments.

And then he had opened his eyes, and had seen the stark hospital lights above him and the IV in his arm. Above him, a computer beeped in time to his heart, and the air smelt of antiseptics.

For a moment, Mello had lain there, monitors gently beeping, and absorbed it all.

_I am not dead, _he had thought, and then the anger had choked him so tightly that he stood up, furious and half-ready to rip the IV from his arm -

Only to fall back down again, gasping in pain, his chest an agony of fire and hurt. He glanced at it, half-expecting to see blood seeping through leather jacket; but all that was there was a thin hospital gown, white and clean, the bandages underneath stiff to the touch. There was no blood on them.

A shrill siren stole his attention, and Mello glanced up to see a series of sharp spikes on the computer monitor, wildly fluctuating up and down. He blinks, then glares at it.

His head hurt.

Damn stupid hospitals. He had always hated them.

A nurse hurries into the room, stops when she sees Mello awake and scowling, then, slowly, smiles.

"Oh," she says, softly, "you're finally awake." This seems to please her, and she hums as she wanders, turning the alarm off on the monitors and checking Mello's pulse, not noticing that he has shifted his glare from the machines to her.

"Well," she says, smiling, "that's all for now, dear. Are you hungry, dear?"

Mello glares at her, then shakes his head.

She clucks. "Nonsense. It's been three days since you were awake; you've been tube-fed, yes, but you need _food, _sweetheart. I'll order you a plate."

She smiles at him, pats him lightly on the arm, then leaves.

Mello glares at the door. Then, once the nurse has left, slumps back on his bed and glares at the ceiling.

_Damnitdamnitdamnitdamnit - _

Damn it.

He exhaled, slowly. It hurt.

He hurt, all over, in fact, a general, numbing pain that started in the soreness of his throat and moved to the sharp jabs in his chest he felt every time he moved. IVs and wires stuck out of him from every angle, making him look more like a human pincushion than a failed prodigy.

But he could think, damnit, he could think.

He wondered who had found him. Watari? Roger? Aiber? L? - ohGod, if it was, he'd have to kill himself -

Not that that had worked particularly well in the past.

Ah, well. C'est la vie. What the hell.

Mello sighs, runs a hand through his hair (a movement that shot knives up his arms, punctuated by a mental ow ow ow ow), wishes that he had chocolate, or shit, one of Matt's cigarette's, something_anything _to just shove into his mouth, tactile sensation to drown out the turmoil in his mind.

He sighs, again. It still hurt, damn it. Damn it all to hell and back.

There is a timid knock at the door, and then, uninvited, a nurse softly slips in. She is older than the other one - late-forties instead of late-twenties - and with a face that promises much more iron than patronizing kindness.

"You're awake," she tells him, as though he had not noticed.

"Yeah," he says.

She does not answer. Then, apropos of nothing, leaves, slamming the door behind her.

Mello blinks.

In a few minutes, though, the door opens again and she is back, face tight-lipped and a small paperback tucked under her arm. Mello sees the title - _Paranormal Amours, _a thin, flimsy mesh of paper held together by glue.

She enters his room, pulls out a chair, and sits in it.

"I will," she says, turning a page, "be watching you, until further orders come. For your own safety."

"Oh God," he mutters, softly, as the weight of the words slowly sinks in. Then, suddenly, sweetly, turning to the nurse, "can I have my clothes back, please?"

She stares at him, warily, for a few moments, dumb and solid and impassive and slightly superior, as though she does not know who he thinks he is, to ask for such an extravagant request.

"I'll ask one of the nurses to send it down," she says, tight-lipped and stern, and for a moment, Mello feels the smile slip, turn into the beginnings of the harsh edges of a scowl -

But he catches himself, at the last second, and offers something not quite a smile as a mangled grimace. But it hides his frustration, and so it will do.

She commences reading.

Mello stared at the wall.

Minutes passed.

At last, there was a soft knock at the door, and another nurse entered, chewing bubblegum as she brought Mello his old clothes, a mess of faded leather torn by bullet holes.

But hidden within folds of leather and burnished steel hooks, there it was: a small block of cheap red plastic. A lifeline.

He takes his phone, gratefully, and texts Matt.


	4. IV

Mail Jeeves had never been the top of his class, but he was not - and had never been - by any chances stupid.

And so when the door opened saw his best friend lying in the mental ward of St. Mary's Hospital, connected to a battery of noise-emitting machines and vehemently glaring at the back of the head of a nurse silently knitting, the first thing Matt did was stop, freeze for a long second and stare stunned at Mello. Who, of course, flushed temporarily red before rearranging his features into a scowl again - but the break was enough for Matt to know, with a horrible sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach, that he was _right, _holy shit it couldn't be true but _damn it _he was _right._

The second thing Matt _would_ have done (if, of course, Mello had not been incapacitated, severely injured by the looks of it, and less than two feet from a nurse and probably witness) was walk up by to Mello and hit him.

He couldn't, of course. So what he settled for was this:

"Holy _shit _Mello," he said, stepping into the dimly lit hospital room and striding over to his best friend's side, "what the _hell _were you -"

"Excuse me," the nurse says, abruptly standing up, severe eyes meeting Matt's green ones, "this is a _hospital. _Our patients need rest, and if you cannot respect that -"

"It's fine."

Mello's voice, so calm and low Matt cannot almost believe it was him. Mello smiles at the nurse, further uprooting Matt, and then says in an uncharacteristically reasonable voice, "he's my friend. I haven't had any visitors since coming here, and we haven't seen each since middle school."

"And?" she asks.

"And," Mello explains, unbelievably patient, "we'd like so time. Alone. To talk."

She stares at him for a long, long time. Then, suddenly, she stands up, scooping her knitting needles and yarn with her as she sweeps out of the room.

Before closing the door, she stops and turns to Mello.

"I will," she said, glancing down her glasses at him, "be monitoring your conversation outside."

When the door closes, Mello rolls his eyes, jerks a hand to the door and silently gags, and Matt cannot help but grin, just a little. It was a sign, after all, that this was _him, _Mello still, despite the machines and politeness, and that thing - odd, dark, strange and yet somehow sad - that still lurked in his eyes.

"How've you been?" Matt asked, silently reaching for a pad of paper and one of the cheery hospital pens. On it, he writes, _What the hell, Mello?_

"Alright, I guess." But Matt notices how Mello's hand trembles and how he bites his lips as he scrawls _What the hell, you? I've been slowly going insane here while you were busy screwing Oxford girls!_

Oh, Mello. Matt almost sighs at it. Even here - weak, suicidal, and clad in teddy bear print pajamas - he was still, obstinately, _Mello. _Never willing to admit weakness or defeated.

"How's the food, here, by the way? I was thinking of stopping by the cafeteria for maybe some biscuits, later on."

_Mello. Do you know what it would have done to me if it'd…you know… succeeded?_

Guilt flickered faintly at the edges of Mello's blue eyes, and when it was gone, it took away the edge of belligerence, the spark of anger, left nothing in its place but a washed out, dirty dishwater color. And Matt knows, though Mello is too proud to say it, that this is contrition, the closest thing Mello will ever get to an apology.

"Terrible. No chocolate _at all."_

"Well, then - I think I can remedy that." A stage whisper, as Matt pulls out of his pocket a chocolate bar and tosses it to Mello; Mello flinches, and it is then that Matt remembers the bandages and IVs.

"Thanks."

_Hershey's? __And milk, too?_

_Sorry. Only thing they had downstairs._

Mello glares at Matt, then slowly, arduously begins to unwrap the candy. He snaps a piece of it off with his teeth, chews pensively.

_Mello. Mello, hello?_

_In case you haven't noticed, I'm not moving anywhere, Matt._

A sigh, this time, and if Mello hadn't been convalescent, Matt would have thrown a pillow at him. Instead, he settles for pelting Mello with another chocolate bar.

_Shit, Matt, that _hurt.

_Don't be such a girl, Mello. You're the one getting free chocolate, not me. Every penny of your just desserts come from the pockets of a penniless college student._

_Mm-hh. You managed to spend Roger's college trust fund in less than a year? Impressive, Matt._

Matt stuck out his tongue.

_Still __my __money._

_Miserly bastard. _

Matt was halfway through writing the first letters of _blonde whore _when someone knocked, gently, on the door before, of course, eschewing the niceties and coming in anyway.

It was a nurse, slighter and shyer and younger than the imposing witch of a matron Mello had been saddled with. And (Matt had to admit) quite a deal prettier.

"Excuse me?" she said, softly. "This isn't a bad time, is it? - only, I'm supposed to give Mr. Thomas his medicine and record his vitalsigns right now. Um. If that's alright with the two of you."

It was alright with Matt, who wouldn't have minded much if the very pretty girl in front of him would take _his _vital signs, too.

"No problem," he sign, trying for his best charming, friendly-but-not-too-friendly smile. Behind him, Mello rolled his eyes, and Matt quickly changed _blonde whore _to _asexual freak _and added it to his cache of future insultsto use during future arguments.

The pretty nurse in front of him smiled, cautiously friendly. "If you don't mind, then," she said, in her soft-spoken voice, "stepping out, for just a bit. I'd like to examine Mr. Thomas, alone, for just a moment."

_Lucky _Mello.

Lucky Mello sighed and mouthed 'hormones' at Matt. Matt briefly debated about calling him _asexual freak_ now or leaving the insult for later and decided that better times would come.

Matt did, however, stick his tongue out at Mello as he left.

He left, and once outside the door, allowed himself to smile, pleased but also just a little sad.

Still Mello. Still Mello, his best best friend, a streak of fire and cold pride -

But Matt was not stupid, and he had _seen. _Seen beneath the sheen of bravado and brash noise, and beneath that, beneath it, there was a weariness, a tiredness that had not truly left Mello's eyes even when they'd been bickering. And it was that tiredness, that weariness that truly frightened him. It spoke of defeat, and of acceptance.

Matt sighed, and wished for a cigarette.


	5. V

"L?"

"Watari," the detective acknowledged, without turning around. In front of him, a dozen television screens silently flickered, giving the solitary slice of cake that faced them a blue glow.

"None of the databases have turned up any sign of Mello," Watari said, quietly pulling a seat out and sitting down beside the detective.

In the silence, L speared a strawberry, whipped cream gently falling off onto delicate porcelain as he bit.

"Joseph Offin turned up nothing, either," Watari said, gently wiping whipped cream from L's wrist, "nor Timothy Mathers, nor any of Mello's other aliases."

"He must be using another one, then," L said, licking his fork. "Either that or avoiding human interaction altogether."

"L, it's been _a week."_

L shrugged. "Mello can be very determined. Have you searched the hospitals? The airports?"

"I have. Nothing turned up."

"Look up all the new arrivals who have checked into the hospitals over the last week and get me the list of passengers on all outgoing flights. Find their names and descriptions."

Watari nodded, and turned to leave.

"Oh, and Watari? Bring me some more cake, please."

Watari smiled.

"I will."

When the door had closed and he was alone again, L sat, and contemplated. In front of him, twelve television panels bathed the room in blue; in front of him, twelve screens relayed data about wars, espionage, the world's most notorious criminals and crimes.

But that was not where L's mind was. Rather, the detective's mental capacities were focused on a more elusive quandary: a blonde, blue-eyed boy he had known for quite some time and who had, in the last week, seemingly disappeared.

Mello had, of course, always been a difficult prodigy to train: too wild to heed advice, too fiery and determined to be dissuaded of the wild ideas he would sporadically take hold of. There were days when L was certain the boy was driving to an early death.

At the same time, though, there were other days - days when the maelstrom of emotion and defiance that was Mihael Keehl was more stable, more malleable and calm so that all that could be seen was pure icy intellect, the same intellect that had placed him in Wammy's House and that made him the unquestioned successor to L for five years -

Brilliant. Of course the boy was brilliant, Near's equal in many ways and even the white-haired boy's superior in some - yet he was volatile, too. Far, far too intense, too emotional. In moderation, it would have been a good trait, but with Mello, there was never any sense of moderation.

So, in the end, it had been Near. After all, Watari choose for durability as much as anything; L's successor had to be someone who would last, not a hot-blooded pyromaniac who would turn to ashes as soon as he began to burn.

He wondered vaguely, though, if he had been too blunt in telling Mello that.

Had it been Near, of course, it would have easier; Near would have understood, would have taken in only the meaning of the words as raw data. He would have understood that L had meant his words at face value, that there had been no secret undercurrents or implications in the words.

But Mello, Mello, Mello -

In retrospect, it had been altogether _far _too blunt.

L stabbed his cake, serrating a thin wafer of buttercream and sponge cake. He licked his fork.

Truth be told, he had liked Mello. It would be a shame if the boy did anything rash.


	6. VI: Interlude

In the dark, when Matt has gone and the last nurses are quietly knitting outside his door, Mello stares, and thinks. Above him, the machines gently beep out his heart rate and respiration.

So. This was what he'd come to: him, Mihael Keehl, once brilliant, once first, once the _fucking _successor to L, now here, a wraith in a paper gown, lost, beaten, ribs cracked and lung punctured by a self-inflicted bullet wound. Learning, slowly, to breathe again.

Once (perhaps once upon a time), he must have been happy, must have been the best. He remembered those days as a though they had been a dream, a daze of delirium of chocolate and laughter and stolen wine.

And now -

Only second best, wasted, used, as flimsy and ragged as torn foil paper.

What do you do, really, when you have lost? What do you do when everything has been taken from you, even hope?

L's last words run through his head:

_Watari has already chosen my successor, Mello. It would be better if you stopped trying to oust Near from his new position._

And, then, like a jagged blade turning in his heart, those last words, sincerity a razorblade and pity a barb:

_I'm sorry, Mello._

Sorry.

Sorry.

_Sorry._

He didn't need _anyone's_ goddamn pity. He was going to show them all, he was going to, going to -

_What?_

An eternal question, the one he had tried to answer so inadequately seven days ago. But death, really, hadn't come as easily as it did in movies, and now here he was.

And now what? He had lost, hadn't he?

A simple realization, not quite a epiphany for the rage and defiance in it, a simple, easy word:

_No._

Mello sat up, monitors _beep-beep-beeping _in quick succession as he did.

No.

And then, just like that, all the pieces fell together.


	7. VII

"Mello," Matt sighed as he handed over the chocolate bar, "you don't know _how _much money I spend on you here."

"What, ten bucks?" Mello asked, ripping open the foil with his teeth.

"Hey, this is pretty fancy stuff - Ghirardelli doesn't come cheap, you know."

"Yet it still tastes like tinfoil," Mello commented - though, of course, he still bit off a large hunk of the chocolate bar. "High-end stuff, Matt, pricey stuff. Amedei. Michel Cluizel. Valrhona. Stuff you don't buy at Tesco the morning you see your best friend."

"Well, 'cuse me if your glorified mail-order candy doesn't arrive instantaneously. I mean, that would be great and all, but we can't all get what we want, can we?"

Mello shrugged. "Maybe you could. If you just tried hard enough."

Matt, in his turn, shrugged, a feline movement made of _maybes _as he shifted on Mello's bed.

"Chocolate?" Mello asked, proffering a square.

"I thought you said it tasted like tinfoil."

"It does. That's why I'm offering."

"Jerk." But Matt took the piece, chewed slowly. "It's not that bad."

"Says the one who inhales tar all day."

They sat for a while, in silence, slowly chewing their way through the chocolate as the sun fell on white sheets, the gentle beeping of the machines a slow lullaby.

"They say you might be out in a few days," Matt said, licking his fingers. "I mean, you're not in great shape, but you've stabilized, and I don't know what shit you've been feeding the psychs heres …what are you going to do, then? Go to Oxford, work?" The real question being, of course, what will you do now, now that they have chosen and all your hopes have turned to ash?

And Mello smiles, smiles because for the first time in a long time, he knows the answer.

"I'm going to beat Near," he says, and the triumph hangs, lonely and battered and proud in the sterilized air.

* * *

In the end, after all, it had been all backwards. L was a badge, yes, a trophy, a victory of sorts - but L was a battle, not the war. It hadn't been, in the end, about who would inherit the detective's title; no, in the edge, it had been who was _worthy _to do. _That _was what he had been fighting for. _That _was the war.

And Mello, chocolate between his teeth and the first sharp edges of a smile on his lips, knows that he will win.

* * *

"Any progress, Watari?"

"The databases have turned up nothing for Mello. However…"

"Yes, Watari?"

"A Stephen Worth has recently flown in from Oxford and visited a Thomas Alton at St. Mary's Hospital."

"So we have Matt," L said, swirling his spoon in a pool of half-melted ice cream, "and with him, Mello."

He was silent for a while, delicately playing with the bloody maraschino cherries that bled red syrup into the white canvas of vanilla Hagen-Dasz. Watari waited, patience practiced from twenty-five years of dealing with the idiosyncrasies of his charge.

"I think," L said, slowly, "that it is time to pay Thomas Alton a visit."

* * *

A/N: So I'm really, really worried about the trajectory of this story. I mean, I have other chapters written (short, tiny chapters as per my style), but I've never written any mystery fiction before (or, to be frank, read much of it.) Awk. Soooo nervous. Currently crossing my fingers and hoping I don't screw this story up any more than I already have.


	8. VIII

A/N: You know, maybe I'm just a sad, sad needy little fanfic author, but getting review made me feel impossible warm and fuzzy. Thank you for your kind words and thank you to my awesome beta, Wolf-girl-Artemis. Say hi to her!

* * *

"First," Mello says, snapping off a square of chocolate as they sat, the setting sun casting a bloody tint to the air, "we'll need to hack into Wammy's system, to find what cases L's assigned to Near. That should be fairly easy, seeing as you helped write the thing."

"_Helped? _I practically wrote all of the new programs, Mello."

"Yeah, yeah, we get it, you're great and wonderful and we're all unworthy to sit in your presence."

"Hey, give me some credit - even L was impressed. And then?"

"Then we solve it," Mello said, peeling back aluminum foil to reveal smooth, mahogany chocolate. He tossed the foil onto his untouched dinner tray.

"Easier said than done, Mello."

"Thomas, here."

"Mels, I don't think any of the nurses are serial killers listening at the door."

Mello shrugged, an eloquent gesture born of twelve years of being trained in paranoia and secrecy. "We'll need new aliases, too," he told Matt, "new documents, but those are fairly easy to forge. And," he mused, "maybe some guns, too."

"_No."_

"Matt -"

"_No_," Matt repeated, green eyes bright behind his goggles. "After you ended up in goddamn hospital, I am _not _letting you fifty feet within a gun."

Mello sighed. "They'd only be for our own protection, but if you're going to be paranoid, you can carry them, then, and I'll promise not to touch them unless we need to. Okay?"

"Mello -"

"_Goddamn _it, it's either we carry them or we get shot full of holes by some serial killer."

"And what if _you're _the one putting the holes in yourself?"

"Matt. I swear - I promise I won't, okay? That was stupid; that was temporary. But we're going to need _something, _and it doesn't matter if you're the one carrying the bullets or I am. Now," he began again, "we're going to do this in secret, alright? I don't want that bastard Near to know a damn thing if we can help it - let him think he's safe, let him think he's won. We'll reveal ourselves, eventually, and then _that'll _be a nasty shock to his inflated ego."

"Or," Matt said quietly, purple dusk casting his face in quiet lines, "there's the other option, you know. Oxford. Girls, books, parties."

"Oh," Mello said softly, the edges of excitement retracting guiltily. "Matt - you don't have to - I never said -"

"I know you didn't, Mels," Matt said, smiling gently, "but what else could I do?"

"What about that Hannah?"

Matt shrugged. "Girls come and go. They sure as hell shouldn't come between you and your best friend. Besides, Hannah'll understand."

And that was such a Matt statement, it was almost funny, or perhaps sad: carefree, loyal to a fault, and so self-sacrificing that it hurt, a visible, sharp pain that hurt in some way that Near's victories never could.

"Are you sure?" he asked, quietly.

"Yeah," Matt said, smiling. "Besides, you need me more than her, anyway."

* * *

Later that night, when the dark-haired man and the smiling gentleman ask to see the patient in room 501, the nurse, puzzled but smiling, leads them into the empty room, shows them the crisp corners of the hospital beds, and explains (still smiling) that the last patient had recently checked out, and that she was sorry they had just missed him.

She flusters, a little, under the blank stare the dark-haired man gave her (really, what were they thinking, letting people who looked like _that _into a respectable hospital), but the older man gently put his hand on the younger man's shoulders, and asked was there anything, really anything she knew? - because, well, they were all a little distraught, after all, the man in the room had been their friend, and if she knew anything, well, then here was his phone number and just call him, alright?

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head, "I just got back from vacation. Besides, that's confidential information." Then, feeling a little guilty, tells him that she's sorry and hopes they would find their friend soon.

The man smiled (really, he had a lovely, warm smile, the type you expected St. Nicholas or grandfathers to wear), thanked her politely for her help, then, with his hands still clamped on the younger man's shoulders, slowly walked away.

Really, she wondered, watching the two men slowly walking away, one bent and one straight silhouette, what an odd pair.

Then, the schizophrenic in room 512 begins trying to rip the IVs from his arm, sounding an alarm that runs up and down the corridors, and sighing, she goes back to work. And within moments, lost within a white world of pills and machines, she forgets all about the strange visitors.

* * *

"Well, L? Your prognosis on the situation?"

L shrugged. "Pneumothorax, cracked ribs. They heal."

"Not the physical state."

"I know."

Watari waited.

"I think," L said, slowly, "we do nothing. We leave him alone. Mello's alive, he's with Matt. He'll survive."

"And if he doesn't, L?"

"Then it's no fault of ours. It's Mello's choice."

"L -"

"I _know, _Watari," L said, and for the first time, a sharpness in his voice. "But he's with Matt, he's been prescribed antidepressants, and Watari, there's an absurdly low chance he would take our help as it is. Let Mello do what he will. He's Mello. That should be enough."

The silence stretched taut between them.

"Alright," Watari said finally, "we'll trust Mello."

"Thank you."

Watari nod, a little curtly, a little sadly, and made to leave.

"Oh, and Watari? Please uninstall the recent updates to Wammy's system."


	9. IX

Mello was sprawled over the couch, textbook open and chocolate bar clutched between teeth when Matt entered, a jangle of keys and the waft of cigarette smoke announcing his arrival.

"Mels. Anyone tell you you're going to get diabetes one of these days?"

"Matt. Anyone tell you you're going to get lung cancer, pulmonary disease, a heart attack, hypotension, and throat cancer one day?"

Behind his goggles, Matt rolled his eyes. "You're a wonderful house guest, Mels," he said, carefully placing the paper bag he was holding on a table strewn with chocolate wrappers.

"Mmf," Mello muttered. "I'll take it as a compliment."

"Try a vegetable," said Matt, sitting next to Mello and taking a bag of carrots from the paper bag, "c'mon, just one."

"Eat grass, Matt."

"You _smoke _grass, Mels, you don't eat it."

"Pedant," Mello said, the worn sofa groaning as he slowly sat up. "God, Matt, what is this stuff? Whole-wheat pasta, graphic design textbooks, carrot sticks, _Tofurky, _for God's sake, Matt, _Tofurky."_

"Hannah swears by the stuff."

"Tell your girlfriend to eat some chocolate cake, then."

"Gotta make sure it's fair trade, organic chocolate cultivated with minimal impact to the local ecosystem, Mels."

"Oh God, she's not coming over today, is she?"

"No, Mello, and no, that doesn't mean you get the chocolate cake all to yourself, mostly because I couldn't find any chocolate cake."

"Jerk," Mello said, scowling as he broke off another piece of chocolate. "But what's with all the graphic design stuff and Java textbooks here, Matt? Seriously, Matt, _Java? _Didn't you learn that stuff when you were seven?"

"Gotta get a degree," Matt said, shrugging. "Way I figure it, a MA in graphic design and a PhD in computer programming should be enough to get me into Nintendo or one of its smaller branches as a designer. Making games for Playstation or Wii - that'd be pretty sweet, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah," Mello says quietly. And it would. Matt would like the job, would be good at it, would be like a kid working in a candy shop or Disneyland designing interfaces and controls. Matt would be happy.

And yet, some small part of Mello rebelled against it, said _no, _even as he could see how obviously happy it made his best friend. Some small part of him said that it was not _enough, _not enough -

And yet. This was his Matt. His best friend. And this made him happy.

And that should be enough.

Matt, always insightful, always politic, smiles faintly as he pulls out his old, battered DS and pushes his goggle up. For a few moments, the only sounds between them were the beeps as Matt's fingers moved deftly over the controls.

"Aliases?"

"Forged. Leeds police system ridiculously easy to hack into. Alter-egos recorded in the database, so we're set there."

Good.

"How's Wammy's system coming?"

"Almost in. They really haven't changed. Kind of sad. But give me another day or two."

Another day or two.

"Matt," Mello says, slowly standing up, "much as rabbits and hamsters like the stuff, I'm not in the mood for lettuce today. I'm calling for a pizza."

And without another word, he padded across the muddy brown carpet of Matt's flat to retrieve the dog-eared Yellow Pages that propped the bathroom door open.

Another day or two.

That was all.

* * *

And two days later, hacking between classes and grocery runs, Matt is in.

"_Sweet," _Matt said, grinning as cigarette smoke wreathed his head, as they sat there, the screen in front of them flickering muted blues. "Told you I could get in."

"We worship your prowess, oh mighty one. Near's system is part of Wammy's, right?"

"Mm-_hhn."_

"Then let's get in," Mello said, his eyes bright as he smiled a grin made of canines and sharp angles, "and find out."

* * *

The Zodiac case (as the tawdrier newspapers had already begun referring to the suicides as) was, at first glance, not much of a case. Little was known about the reasons for the suicides; little connected the victims other than their missing heartbeats.

There were, however, several facts.

Fact one: four people, within the space of two months, had shot themselves, in various places at various times. All had left suicide notes.

Fact two: the suicide notes were identical, save for the closing line, in which each victim had signed his or her name, next to a drawing of his or her zodiac sign.

Fact three: all four suicides had been committed in order of the victims' astrological signs. Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer. Four constellations. Four deaths.

And another fact, one that slightly irked Near but did not worry him:

Someone had hacked into Wammy's system, and with it, into Near's data. And Near, as he sat, plastic blocks garish in front of a black screen, decides that it is really, is no matter at all.

* * *

"And that's all they know?"

"Seems like it."

Mello was silent for while. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"Good. Then we can't be too behind that twit. Any info on the suicides? Potential suspects?"

"Mello…they're not even sure if it's a murderer. I mean, it sounds sort of odd, doesn't it? A bunch of suicides all happening at once - doesn't sound like a murder, more like members of some apocalyptic cult deciding next Saturday was Armageddon, or something."

Mello was silent for a while. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

"No. I mean, there is a distinct possibility - but it's very, very low. The suicides took place too close to be random, too far away to be the work of a cult. There's a killer, Matt. There has to be a killer."

"And you know this how?"

Mello shrugged. "It just seems like it. We'll just need some groundwork to prove it."

"Ooh, I see. So we're going to travel across England in search of someone who may or may not have killed five people the police classify as suicides just because your Mello senses are tingling?"

"Matt -"

"Chill, Mels. A joke. You know, one of those hahaha things?"

"I'm _serious, _Matt."

"And I am too. Mels, you said it yourself - this stuff is dangerous. I don't care if there's a killer or not, if you're going to investigate every potential penitentiary candidate, there's a pretty damn high chance some serious shit is going to go down."

"What the hell else am I supposed to do, then? Near's sitting on his ass, getting his lackeys to get information for him - we're getting behind with every damn second, Matt, losing ground when we started out behind - what the hell else do we do?"

"Wait," Matt said, his eyes serious behind his goggles. "If Near's really sitting on his ass, then we've got access to his files; his lackeys will be collecting data for both him and us. This is the prelims, Mels; there's no need for us to do anything now. Okay?"

A silence. Mello still glowered, but with less intensity. Reason had convinced him logically, if not quite emotionally.

"And besides," Matt said, a slow smile making its way across his face, "we can't leave now. Day after tomorrow, Hannah's coming over for dinner."


	10. X

It is six pm when Gevanni decides that really, no amount of money is ever going to make up for this.

In a dilapidated bar on the outskirts of , he orders a beer, taps his fingers pm the dusty counter as he waits for the drink to arrive. Drinks, exhales slowly, slowly.  
It had not been a good day, and as he waits for the cab to arrive, he counts the reasons he hates his job.

Initially, of course, it would have to be the supervisor - this Near, L's hand-picked successor or whoever. Normally, Gevanni (or hell, any normal Interpol member) would have been jumped at the chance to work with anything related to L. But this Near kid, though, he was just so damn condescending - he could tell that, even through the computerized voice Near always gave his orders in. As if Gevanni was so below beneath his notice he didn't even have to hide his disdain. Which, okay, as a rookie Interpol member fresh out of training, he was pretty low on the power ladder while Near was the successor to the world's greatest detective, but still. Even L hadn't been that patronizing.

Vying for a close second place was the utter futility of the whole thing; the police had, after all, dismissed the whole thing as a random string of suicides. Coincidence. Washed the affairs off their hands, dismissed the neat stacking up of variables as something fit for the detectives to worry out. Not a murder, even if L and his successor thought so, and certainly not something to show to a floppy-haired twenty-eight year olds rushing into police offices, even if they carried Interpol badges and had authority in their eyes (which, admittedly, Gevanni didn't). And even when they had deigned to let him examine the bodies and the notes - well, they were just bodies, weren't they? Just notes, weren't they? Perhaps if he were L, he would have been able to piece something out of the barrage of images and letters, but if he were L, then he wouldn't be here, would he?

He had taken faithful pictures, faithful transcripts, and then had left, frustrated and disgusted.

What was worst, though, was how damn _nice _they had all been. Interview the families, Near had said, and he had tried, tried to return training lessons and extricate (slowly, though, gently) information, data. Where was your daughter last Friday night. Were there any friends she had recently made. Did she engage in any odd activities the night before her death.

And it been okay, been okay until the grey-haired lady had offered him a lemonade and began to talk, oh no, Eileen had always been a sweet girl, a nice girl - she'd always been an honor student, you see, was going to attend college next year, very smart, always the darling of her father's eye - and would he care to see her room? Only it might help because she couldn't believe it, the police must have made a mistake, Eileen was such a sweet girl she wouldn't have - and (here the father) it would be a damn good thing when they caught the son of a bitch who had done it -

Well. What were you supposed to do to that except apologize and hastily leave, trying to blur out the memories, the awful sense of déjà vu that that could have been your - well, what else were you supposed to do, could you do?

Gevanni sighs, and orders another drink, downs it in one gulp. His first case, he reminds himself, his first case. He couldn't afford to bungle it, not if he wanted any police career at all.

Though, if this was what police work looked like, he wasn't really sure if he did.


	11. XI

A/N: This ought to go without repeating, but Mello's views and opinions are his and his alone. This apolitical vegetarian means no offense to those who disagree with him.

You know, this chapter was initially meant to be light-hearted and warm fuzzy - you know, a break from all the drama. And then Mello barged in with his general Mello-ness, and, well, I have no idea what it is now. Hopefully entertaining.

* * *

"Matt."

"Hm? News, Mels?"

"Near's been investigating."

"Good for him."

"He hasn't found much. The lackeys have been pretty much incompetent."

"Shucks for him."

"Matt. Are you listening?"

"Trying not to burn dinner here, Mello."

Mello sighed, then turned the laptop off.

Tofurkey. Cooking. Last time Mello had witnessed Matt cooking, he'd set fire to three floors of Wammy House. Now here he was, making vegan fettuccini and tortellini soup. And despite the lack of dead animals, they smelled amazing.

Wonders never ceased.

Yawning as he stood up, Mello slowly sauntered towards the kitchen and the amazing aromas coming from it.

"Where's the chocolate cake, Matt?"

Matt pointed to the half-open refrigerator. Mello opened it, and found that the moldy half-eaten sandwich and the yellowing milk that had been in there yesterday had been replaced by a large chocolate cake. Mello rather missed the spoiled food. They had given the fridge character.

The cake, though, more than made up for their absence.

"Homemade?" Mello asked, running a finger over the icing and licking it.

"Nah. Got it for about a thousand pounds at this vegan bakery."

"Didn't think you could make something this good, anyway."

"Mello," Matt sighed, not turning around as he stirred alfredo sauce, "sometimes I wonder, _why _do I put up with you?"

"Who else would put up with you?"

"Hannah, for one."

"Girls don't count."

Matt stuck out his tongue.

"God, Matt, there's no need to act like a twelve-year-old."

"Can if I want to. My place, Mels."

Mello rolled his eyes, but closed the fridge.

"So when's this girlfriend of yours coming over anyway, Matt?"

"About now," Matt said as the doorbell rang.

* * *

Hannah, Mello decided, was generically pretty and blandly intelligent: blonde with blue eyes, she was smart enough to know about Fair Trade and string theory but naïve enough to still believe in the Animal Liberation Front and the usefulness of the UN. As they sat around the cramped table in the newly clean apartment (playing normal, Mello thought with a small smile), she talked, tried to smile.

Mello marveled at it. Dinner had gotten off to an awkward start, what with Hannah's incredulous stare at Mello's leather and decidedly air of non-vegan pacifism. For a moment, Mello had been certain she was going to cry or scream, and then she had smiled, plastered on a fake, plastic grin over the general sentiment of _I just met you, and I already hate your guts you bloody bastard, _etc., etc._._ He'd never known vegan hippies could be quite so violent.

And then matters had smoothed over, calmed and cooled with the (surprisingly good) tortellini and fettuccini. Matt introduced him - a friend, he said, someone who was staying over for a bit. They talked. Matt smiled a whole damn lot. Mello didn't. It wasn't in him.

Instead, what he did was he had been taught to do: observe, analyze, conclude.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Photogenic, visually appealing. Was that it?

Pacifist. Vegan. Idealist. Hippie. Oxford girl. Smart enough, he guessed, though Mello could never imagine Hannah at Wammy's. She was too _soft, _too naïve and idealist and wide-eyed to belong in a place where steel was ironed into your being. Even Matt, for all his playing at normal, was much harder, much stronger than this girl. And what was more, she was such a blah presence, so boring beneath her peacenik passion really, so…normal.

Then why?

Though, of course, Mello already knew.

Matt, Matt didn't want to just play at normal, he wanted to _be _normal. To have a nice vanilla life, get a nice vanilla job, hell (and though the thought disgusted Mello beyond words), maybe even get married and have overbearing children to preen and parade and not teach calculus at eight to. After years of being pigeonholed and measured and numbered, it was natural, wasn't it? Wasn't it?

Mello knows, yes, understands even, but that doesn't mean he approves. And it doesn't he has to goddamn smile about it, either. Though, to be honest, the piercing glances and glares he sent her way seemed to be taking the hostility off Hannah's eyes and replacing it with a confused nervousness.

No, definitely not Wammy's material at all.

Which reminded him -

He excuses himself early, nursing a copious slice of chocolate cake as he returns to Matt's room and the laptop waiting within. Waiting for the laptop to load, he sits on Matt's miraculously clean bed and spears a piece of chocolate cake.

"Matt," he hears from the kitchen, "how long is, er, your friend staying here?"

"A while." Mello could imagine Matt shrugging as he said it. "He's kind of in a hard place right now."

"Oh." Quiet for a moment, the clink-clink of silverware on china. "He seems… rather gauche."

Really, this girl wasn't even worth the effort of rolling eyes for. Didn't she know that he could hear her perfectly well through the thin walls? Probably just pissed she couldn't screw Matt with another person in the flat.

"Thomas can be hard to get used to at first. He's a decent guy, though."

_That _bland statement was worth rolling his eyes at. Which Mello did. Matt could be such a sissy with girls.

"He wears _leather, _though."

"He does, though I doubt he has more than a grand total of two different outfits he owns."

"Matt -"

"Oh, _damn, _I left my psych book in Goodwin's office, and there's this huge-ass test tomorrow. I better get it - or borrow someone else's - study, you know? - I'll be back ASAP, promise, love you, bye."

The door slammed.

Mello rolled his eyes.

God, Matt was such a bad liar.

* * *

Twenty minutes later of waiting patiently for Matt's return, Hannah slowly creaks open the door to Matt's room. Where Mello lies, clacking dutifully on his keyboard, a chocolate bar shoved perfunctorily into his mouth.

She walked in slowly, sat down in one of the room's many metal chairs, papers fluttering on Matt's desk as she did. Mello ignored her.

In the dim light, she watched him for long, long minutes.

"You look busy," she said after the silence had stretched out between them for several minutes.

"I am."

"What are you doing?"

_None of your business, you bitch. _

But, of course, he couldn't say a thing like that to Matt's girlfriend, could he? Even if it was damn tempting. Partially because she _was _Matt's girlfriend.

"Typing."

She sighed, brushed errant golden locks from her face in a movie clichéd movement. "I _know _that. What are you typing about?"

"Why do you want to know?"

She looked shocked at his rudeness. It was almost endearing, until Mello remembered she was Matt's girlfriend.

"Why? Why shouldn't I? Curiosity, I suppose?"

_ Killed the cat. Is probably going to kill you, too. Or I will. Bitch._

"Investigating government conspiracies, uncovering government cover-ups."

"Geez, it was just a simple question, alright? No need to be snippy about it."

_This _was snippy? Women were impossible.

"Anyways," Hannah sighed, "I was just trying to start some conversation."

Slowly, she stood up, lingered for a long second in the doorframe.

"If you want some," she said slowly, "there's chocolate cake in the kitchen."

* * *

When Matt returns to his apartment, smelling of cigarette smoke and musty fall leaves, he pauses, stops one second in front of the front door, lingers and listens.

There were voices coming from inside.

"I told you, their _sen_timents are pure, it's all for a good cause and they really are trying - "

"Sentiments? Sentiments don't mean a _damn _thing when contaminating candy and sending out letter bombs every other week -"

"Look, just because there are a few extremists -"

"A few? Being listed as a domestic terrorism threat by multiple governments means there are a _few _extremists?"

"The ALF's morals are in the right place -"

"And whatever godawful place that is in whatever fucked up universe, I don't want to know."

A pause. Quiet.

And then -

"Matt," Hannah says, glaring at him as she slams open the door, "I don't know how long _Thomas _intends to stay around and I don't know what mess he's in that he's stuck staying with you, but he's rude, he swears like a sailor, he wears leather, and he's _mean, _and I hope that he leaves _soon."_

And then she rushes away in a flurry of tears and righteous anger.

Slowly, Matt walks into his apartment. Mello sits at the table, the once large chocolate cake Matt had bought that morning now a sad, cake crumb thing of its former glory. Two plates were out: Hannah's concession to politeness.

"Mello," Matt says slowly, "you just made my girlfriend cry."

"Yeah? And?" Mello asks, reaching over to slice himself another piece of cake.

Matt opens his mouth -

Then slowly closes his eyes, and sighs.


	12. XII

Nothing.

Mello stared at the monitor. And then, after flickering through several news sites, went back to Near's data.

He glared at the computer, hoping his belligerence would force it into updating.

Still nothing.

Exasperated, Mello slammed the laptop's monitor down.

"Mels, that thing cost a thousand dollars."

"Fuck your computer. You can always get a new one."

Matt rolled his eyes, sighed, then slowly smiled.

"Going for a food run," he said, jangling a pair of keys. "Eynsham. Coming?"

"What the hell," Mello muttered, slowly standing up. "Sure, why not? What the hell else is there to do?"

* * *

Because:

Well, really, that was the problem, wasn't it?

Ennui: a boredom tinged with weariness.

Not that Mello was tired - far from it. No, instead, he was full of energy, brimming with the need to do do _do something - _somethingsomethingsomething _anything. _He needed to move, needed something to _happen, _goddamn it all - but. Nothing.

Near and his damn lackeys. If he were L -

But no no no: close eyes, hold it out. Breathe in, deep, deep, deep.

"Mello?"

Mello opens his eyes, slowly shakes his head. "Fine," he says quietly. Then, smiling, "I'm fine."

Matt cocks his head for a moment, looks unconvinced, worried. But he chooses to smile, a Matt smile: soft but tinged with something else.

"'Kay, Mels. Cinnamon or plain?"

"Double-chocolate chip."

"They're out."

"Goddamn."

The girl at the counter looks scandalized by the language. Mello glares at her, for retribution. She reminded him of Hannah.

Beneath his goggles, Matt rolled his eyes. "We'll buy you a cake at Mimi's, okay? Chocolate."

They place their order: six cinnamon, six plain. Then, bagels in hand, they walk (talking, laughing) toward Matt's battered green car.

And for a moment, it was alright: sky lit by city lights and stars, the warm smell of buttery yeast and cinnamon lingering in the air with the promise of chocolate cake. And for a few moments, it was okay. For a few moments, Mello forgot.

The body was more than enough to make him remember.

Mello saw it first: a long, elongated thing lying the shadows. He nudged Matt, who stopped laughing as he saw the fallen figure on the cement.

Together, they slowly approached the body.

Matt sucked in his breath, slow but steady. But that was all, all as Mello gazed ahead with clear blue eyes.

Wammy's children, after all: calculus and forensics side-by-side, anatomy and lessons on covert surveillance back to back with basic ballistics and Keats. Childhood memories the smells of graphite and gunpowder.

And here, in front of the them, the fruit of all their training.

A body. A murder, quite obviously. Knife wounds slashing from chest to hip, blood soaking through pale clothes and pale skin. And next to the body - the boy, for he couldn't have been more than twenty - a slip of paper. Blood drops on creamy white.

Mello glanced at Matt, and was met with a nod. He had felt it, too.

With gloved hands, Matt - gently, oh-so-very gingerly - picked the paper up, unwrinkled it with one thumb. Wordlessly, he showed it to Mello.

_Stars turn, stars fade. When the stars die, they will color the sky._

_Leo._

Matt waited, watching Mello. It was a different note, and what his best friend said could more than decide it.

Mello didn't talk, for a long long while, only stared at the note in front of him. Blankly, as though waiting for it give up its secrets under his glare.

"Goddamn serial killers," he finally managed. "Conceited pack of melodramatic egoists."

Matt smiled at that. Briefly.

"Mello -"

Mello nodded. "Looks like him, doesn't it?"

And, yes, it did: the blood, the notes, the theatrics. _Him, _a name masked in whispers, an anathema, a curse, a passing ghost far too close.

Beyond Birthday. The dark-haired boy with razors in his smile and his heart.

They didn't have much on them, but it would have to do. Matt clicked his camera phone over the body as Mello dumped the bagels onto the street and filled the plastic bag they had come in with samples of the victim's hair, clothes, skin.

And then, after the plastic bag was full and stashed in the safe in Matt's car, they called the police.

* * *

A/N: Death Note: Another Note plays heavily into this story's plot, so I would try to read it if possible. If you have any trouble getting a hold of a copy, just message me with your email and I'll see what I can do.


	13. XIII

"You're Leeds?"

Mello nods, curtly flashed forged identification. "L sent us."

Well, okay, as lies went, he probably could have chosen a better one. More believable, more realistic. Consider: two college aged policemen, wearing plain clothes of the most eccentric sort, and working for the world's greatest detective. Well. It was a scene that hardly invited verisimilitude.

After a short, scrutinizing glance, though, the policeman nodded his head back at Mello and Matt. Probably remembering the rumors of L's quirks.

"Alright," he said, finally. "Good to work with you men. Thank you for contacting us. Here, what are your numbers? - we'll keep you informed."

Mello inclined his head briefly. And they stood there, together watching as whirring sirens and blazing lights illuminated the night. A funeral procession of police cars and flashing lights.

* * *

They had the samples; they had the note; they had, Mello realized with a burst of elation, beat Near to the evidence. And it is a thought that gives him strength, brings a small smile to his face as they stride to Matt's car.

Because the path is clear now, and Mello knows what to do.

"Oxford labs," Mello tells Matt, a chocolate bar between his teeth as they speed down the highway. "We're going to get in, analyze the shit, find this Zodiac bastard." And beat Near.

Matt is silent for a while as the lights of Eynsham dance outside the windows, a blur of gold and green.

"Mello," he said, finally, "you're going to get me kicked out of college."

"You don't _need _to go to college, you know all the goddamn stuff already. I don't know what you're screwing around for, Nintendo will be groveling for you to join them. Just hack into their system, or something."

"Doesn't work that way, Mels. Doesn't work that way."

Mello scowled, then stopped.

"It's simple, alright? We get in - hell, we don't even have to sneak in, just cozy up to your chemistry professor or whoever -"

"I'm not taking chemistry."

"Then physics, or biology, or environmental studies, for that matter. We'll just run a few tests -"

"You mean I will."

"Matt," Mello said, slowly lowering his chocolate bar, "what got up your ass?"

"Mello," Matt said, uncharacteristically slowly down as he turned his grim glance backwards, "that kid was _dead."_

"I think that's why they called it a murder, Matt."

"Mello. I'm serious. Didn't you see those damn slashes? And oh, God, that blood, all that blood -"

"And?"

"Mello, that could be us."

A silence.

"Matt," Mello said slowly, finally, "we'll be careful, alright? We're not stupid; we know, okay? We'll be on our guard. We'll -"

"Get killed. Shit, Mello, I know you don't care about pedestrian mortal crap like that, but what about me? What about Hannah? What about -"

"Matt. We're not going to get killed."

Matt shrugs, then, and turns his eyes to the road again.

* * *

And though he had denied it, had shook his head and told Matt no, of course not, that night Mello goes online, orders books on ballistics general and terminal. And later, long after Matt has finally fallen asleep, Mello walks to a dingy store on a dingy street where the streets are missing cobbles, hands over the FAC he had obtained so many weeks ago, and buys two twelve round Makarovs.

FAC = Firearm Certificate. Needed in England to buy a gun.

Makarov pistol: semi-automatic gun used widely in the Soviet Union. Yay Wikipedia!


	14. XIV

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Mello is no computer genius like Matt- he is slower, less adept and (most importantly) far less interested in codes and systems - but he is a decent hacker, and while Matt wheedles with professors to borrow equipment, he sits, hacking into the Eynsham police system and collecting their data on the victim.

Sam Elborn. Seventeen, not quite finished with high school and sixth form. Never to finish. Birthday: August 3rd. Cause of death: exsanguination.

He was all over the newspapers, now, the attention that had eluded the shy boy in life now suddenly thrust upon him in death. Already, the tabloids were proclaiming it another Zodiac murder; already, there were speculations, whispers, rumors on the competence and trustworthiness of the police. Fear was already begin to seep.

Frankly, though, Mello didn't care.

This was, after all, his case, and if some deluded psychopath decided to try and kill him, let him try. Mello would rip him from limb to limb -

Well. He'd try to capture him first, of course.

So Mello types. And waits.

* * *

Matt comes in long past ten, goggles askew and circles beneath his eyes. Throwing his keys onto the kitchen counter, he flops onto the couch next to Mello and closes his eyes.

"Chinese?" he asks, without opening his eyes.

"Yeah," Mello replied. "There's chow mein left, help yourself."

"Thanks."

"Don't. I used your credit card."

"Well, yeah," Matt said, rolling his eyes as he walked over to the kitchen table, "I kind of expected that."

They were silent for a while, Matt quietly eating his noodles while Mello typed.

"How was the analysis?" Mello asked, finally closing the laptop and glancing at Matt.

"A bitch. You don't know what I had offer Gregor to make him leave me alone in a room with his precious machines."

"Skip the bitching, Matt. What'd you get?"

"Well," Matt said, slowly putting his takeout down and leaning forward on his elbows on the kitchen counter, "the usual. Blood, cotton, skin cells, and -"

"And?"

"On one of the scraps of the kid's shirt, a touch of lipstick. Just like the other case. You know the one. Jacqueline the Ripper." The mysterious murderess (murderer?) of Oxfordshire whose lipstick mingled with the blood of her victims, as though she were planting kisses on the wounds of her victims. "Have the Eynsham people figured it out yet?"

"What do you expect? They're looking for Zodiac, not a crazed chick who likes to remind people of her fashion sense. Incompetent as Near's lackeys. 'Sides, they haven't even gotten around to investigating the body yet - procedures and all and they're still too focused on the note."

"Yeah. It's a new one, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Mello is silent for a while before continuing. "It's not her."

"No?"

"No. It looks too much like him - like B. Whoever it was is connected somehow with him. And B wasn't obvious." He was, after all, a Wammy child, even if he was currently held in a prison with concrete walls four feet thick.

"Or it could be another insane psychopath just imitating B."

"No," Mello said slowly, "it's not. And it's not Jacqueline either."

"Oh. Right. Mello senses. Then she's a pawn. Or she _is _Zodiac, and this is just another taunt."

Mello nodded. "Or Zodiac's trying to frame her."

"Great. So we just eenie meenie miney moe and choose which one she is?"

Mello threw a pillow at Matt. Which, in retrospect, wasn't such a good idea. Chinese takeout flew into the air, splattering the air with oil and stir-fried rice.

"Mello," Matt said, picking pieces of crab rangoon out of his hair, "_you _are cleaning this up."

Mello ignored him.

"And the notes - four shootings, four of the same notes, one very obvious murder and a different note. And in the B murders, four was the arc number - one and three, two and two. And there are twelve signs of the zodiac, so that means three cycles of four - each one with a different type of note. Three cycles for B's three victims. And then there's the question of Eynsham - Eynsham, when all the other killings have been taking place in East of England -"

"Very interesting. You're still cleaning my place."

Mello glared at him. Matt didn't even blink, only walked over and handed Mello a mop.

"We need to investigate," Mello said, tossing the mop onto the jaundice-colored carpet, "find out this Jacqueline is, see if he or she or whoever has any connection to B. Then we'll need to look at the notes - analyze them, read them left to right, up and down. B left messages. And then -"

"First though, Sherlock," said Matt, firmly placing the mop in Mello's hands, "we're cleaning this place up. C'mon," he said, his eyes softening a little, "we'll go out for some two a.m. ice cream afterwards


	15. XV

The ballistics books, Mello decided, were shit. Little better than the classes at Wammy where they had been taught the bare rudiments on how to use a gun with the assumption that it would always be someone else pulling the trigger. Oh, of course the books were thicker, their contents couched in far more sophisticated language and full of far more practical than theoretical advice.

But still. The physics of the thing were simple. The only problem was putting them into practice.

And what that would require, Mello decides with a grim determination, was experience. The next time his gun was a goddamn six inches away from someone's heart, he wasn't going to miss.

And so he was practicing - shooting soda bottles and ice cream cartons in the backyard of the apartment complex, motion detectors set around in a circle so he wouldn't accidentally decapitate a passing college student - when Matt returned.

It had been a long day. From pulling an all-nighter with Mello babbling about Zodiac and B and how the waitress was obviously a whore for not putting more chocolate chips in his ice cream to having Hannah interrogate him for the fifth time on _why _exactly Thomas Alton was staying with him, Matt was in neither a particularly well-rested or good mood when he walked from class towards his apartment.

Seeing his once suicidal best friend shooting at root beer bottles hardly helped.

Matt froze, blinked once, twice at the scene before him, as if it convince himself that it was really real, was really happening.

The crack of yet another bullet through glass was enough to convince him that it was.

"Mello!" he yelled, dropping his books and running towards his best friend, a series of motion sensor beep-beep-beeps sounding into the tranquil air.

Slowly, Mello turned, looked owlishly into Matt's furious face. "Oh. I thought you were with Hannah?"

"Mello," Matt said, glowering and seething, "you absolute idiot - I thought I told you - what the hell are you -"

"Practicing," Mello said, slowly standing up and tucking the gun into the holster (that Matt had never seen) at his side. "What?" he asked, when after several seconds Matt's glare had still not subsided. "You said you didn't want to get killed, right? I was just making sure that you won't be. You said it yourself, we're dealing with some pretty serious shit here. Might as well be prepared."

"Mello," Matt said when he could find his voice again, "I _told _you I wasn't going to let you fifty feet within a gun."

"And I told _you, _Matt, that if you did, then we were going to get shot full of bullet holes. Look, there's not no need to be paranoid, okay? That was stupid. That was temporary. I know Near might think so, but I'm not that damn reckless -"

"And I'm not that damn stupid, Mello. Depression is a goddamn well chronic disease, you idiot - you don't get over it just because, and if you trying playing that "I'm all better now yays" card with me again, I swear to God, I will kill you before you have the chance to."

A silence. Mello stared at Matt while Matt glared at Mello.

"Well, fuck you," Mello said finally, breaking the silence. "If you've got a goddamn death wish, good for you, but I sure as hell don't intend to see you dead. I'm practicing, Matt."

Another silence.

"Fine," Matt said abruptly, grabbing hold of Mello's arm, "one condition."

"Matt - what the hell are you doing?"

"Being a stubborn ass and issuing an ultimatum," Matt said, unlocking his apartment and violently hitting the door open, "you do it all the time, I should at least get to try it once."

Matt let go of Mello's arm, and began rummaging in his closet. Mello watched, rubbing a little at his arm where Matt's fingers had left red marks.

"There," he said, stumbling back and thrusting a small bottle of something towards Mello. "My ultimatum."

Mello stared.

"Prozac?" he finally managed to croak. "Are you serious?"

Matt nodded. "If you want to practice shooting holes in things, at least those things aren't going to be you."

"Matt, there is no fucking way -"

"Doctor's orders, Mels. Mine, too."

And that was it.

At least in Matt's eyes, anyway.

Mello watched him walk out (_Mels, someone's going to break their foot walking through that mess of yours or at least set off those damn alarms_) of the apartment, and stared at the plastic bottle in his hands.

* * *

Jacqueline the Ripper.

Vicious little bitch if there ever was one.

Five murders. Five since the Sam Elborn kid, five since Eynsham. All killed the same way: two knife slashes, lipstick stains on the gashes of her victims.

No notes, though. No zodiac signs. Even the Eynsham police, incompetent as they were, had managed to figure out Jacqueline's telltale marks and had stopped looking for Zodiac.

But still. Jacqueline and Zodiac were connected, Jacqueline and Zodiac - there was something between those two, some connection Mello had felt just as surely as he'd felt the connection between B and Zodiac.

And since he _was _a stubborn ass, Mello decided to investigate it.

It was evening, evening when he returned from Eynsham, his newly improved opinion of their police force lowered once again. They'd found little on Jacqueline that Mello himself hadn't already known, and at this point, he wasn't sure whether or not it would be better to just go out and catch the damn murderer himself, connections to Zodiac or no.

It was just so damn _frustrating. _Something just needed to happen -

Ennui, of course. It had served him well last time, but now - sitting in Matt's dilapidated apartment and mindlessly cruising through ten news website and twelve police databases - he can, really, find nothing.

There is a jangle of keys at the front door. Mello ignores it, continues typing. Probably just Matt again, and in the state Mello was in, he just couldn't bring himself to care enough to give Matt the black eye he justly deserved.

"Oh," comes the high, familiar voice. "I thought Matt might be here."

Hannah is in the front door, and her eyes are narrowed in visible dislike. This disappoints Mello, vaguely. She could have at least tried to hide it, to keep her emotions to herself instead of blaring them out in neon glances and flashbulb glares - or hell, even if she'd wanted to pronounce to the world her hatred of him, she could have at least done it with a little more malevolence, a little more pizzazz - a sneer instead of a snide look, a pointed glare instead of merely a belligerent one -

Wammy's material? Like hell.

"Hi," he decides on. Glib, causal.

It works. One syllable is enough to visibly disorient Hannah, before then visibly infuriating her. She scowls at him, shifts the plate of cookies she holds under one arm to the other. Decides (and Mello can tell it, can read it in her eyes) on forced cordial.

"Is Matt not back from class yet?" she asks.

"Obviously not," Mello replies cheerfully, enjoying the anger that flashes quickly through Hannah's eyes, "as otherwise, he would clearly be here."

"Well, _sorry,_" Hannah says, slamming her plate onto the kitchen table with more violence that was probably necessary, "you never know, he could be out with friends or something!"

Friends?

Yes, but Mello was his best friend. Had always been, would always be, no matter what blonde-haired, blue-eyed bimbo Matt took up with.

"He's not," Mello replied confidently, but Hannah's fiery exclamation was enough to return him to his laptop.

Eynsham, Peterborough, Oxford, Wammy -

Mello stares at the screen.

Wammy.

Near.

_Shit._

Hannah sighs, an overtly dramatic and long-suffering sound as she takes a seat in the kitchen, but Mello doesn't care, doesn't listen as his eyes stay fixed on the words in front of him.

He'd caught her. Jacqueline the Ripper.

Near had done it.

And Mello hadn't.

And then suddenly, Mello was slamming the display down and rushing himself into a fall jacket, Hannah's bewildered "hey!" catching at him like stray leaves as he forces the door open and ran into the chilly air.

* * *

Matt unlocked his apartment -

And found Hannah there, looking as lost and confused as the fresh-baked snickerdoodles on his kitchen, and Mello gone.

His eyes took in the scene - laptop hastily closed, jacket gone, girlfriend utterly confused - and then, behind their goggles, they widened.

"Hannah," he asks, turning to the girl -

"I don't know!" she says shrilly. "I don't know Matt, I don't know! He was just here being insulting and then he left, okay! And I'm glad he did!"

Matt does not answer to that, only stands there for a long, long time -

And then his eyes catch on something, and his thoughts catch on an idea.

The bottle of antidepressants was still on the kitchen table.

Slowly, Matt walks over, opens the bottle as though in a dream. It was full.

And though Matt scoured his apartment, searched it up and down with Hannah's help, the Makarovs were nowhere to be found.


	16. XVI

A/N: I would like to note, for posterity's sake, that in real life, I really don't swear and that there was once a time when typing "damn" in my stories seemed edgy and rebellious. Yeah. Things changed.

* * *

The door jangles open, and the breath catches in Hannah's throat.

It would be Matt, she knew, would be Matt with a cigarette between his lips and his eyes tired, sad beneath the goggles -

And then the door slammed open, and Mello walked in, a chocolate bar in one hand and a carton of ice cream under one arm.

"You - you're back."

"Yeah," Mello said, sauntering over to the fridge and depositing the ice cream in the freezer. "Where's Matt?"

Hannah didn't answer, couldn't answer for a long minute as she watched the boy in front of her lazily crunch on his chocolate. Finally, though, she answers in her smallest voice, "he's out. Looking for you."

"What?" Mello asked, glancing at Hannah's face for a split second before she lowered her head. But that was enough, enough for him to see that the contempt in her eyes had turned to pity, the angry lines to ones of compassion - and that was enough, enough for him to know that it had happened, Matt had done it, and now this girl - this pretty, useless little blonde _girl - _knew. Knew.

Holy shit, she _knew. _

"Hannah," he says in the calmest voice he can muster, and the girl's head whipped up at it, "when is Matt coming back?"

"I - I don't know. I think I can text him that you're back."

Mello nods. "Thanks."

Hannah goggles.

Mello ignores her, breaks off another piece of chocolate and fantasizes about breaking Matt's face.

The door slammed opened, and Mello took a step forward just as Matt stormed inside the apartment -

And hit Mello between the eyes.

Mello blinked slowly, temporarily saw the bloody red of anger replaced by the angry red of blood.

"You _idiot," _Matt whispered, eyes on Mello's as he slowly lowered his fists, "you goddamn _fucking _idiot -"

Which was when Mello slammed his fist into Matt's face. He didn't quite break it, but there was a satisfying trickle of blood that slowly ran down his friend's temple, dripped onto the filthy yellow carpet beneath their feet.

Matt flinches away from the blow, but only for a moment, because in the next his eyes fill with anger and he lunges towards Mello again. Mello is faster, though, dodges and aims an uppercut before Matt can hit him only for Matt - the dirty bastard - to kick him in the mouth in next second. Mello tastes chocolate and blood, and in the next second he is on Matt with a snarl.

In the background, Hannah's screaming is a distant, distant echo.  
"You fucking told her," Mello gasps from between a mouthful of blood, not caring now about stealth or secrecy, "you _told _her -"

"Yeah?" Matt bites out, dodging Mello's fist. "Well maybe that was because _I_ was just fucking worried you were trying to get yourself shot again?"  
"Stop it," Hannah cried, "stop it! Goddamn it all, _fucking _stop it!"

_That _stopped them. Briefly, as they turned to stare at Hannah, who was breathing heavily as she stared at them.

"You're both idiots," she said, glaring at the two of them, "the stupidest pair of screw-ups I swear I've ever had the misfortune to meet. Aren't you two supposed to, you know, be smart?"

Mello glanced at Matt, who did not redden under his gaze, only shuffled a little and averted his eyes. Great. Now the useless pretty girl knew something about Wammy, too.

Icing on the cake.

"Anyways," Hannah continued, with the air of a particularly pompous elementary school teacher, "this is stupid. Matt, nothing irreparable happened. Thomas, nothing irreparable has happened. Okay? So apologize to each other."

Matt and Mello stare at Hannah, legs crossed primly and eyes raised as she sat placidly on the ripped plush sofa -

And then look at each other, and collapse laughing.

"What?" Hannah demands. "What's so funny?"

* * *

"The thing is," Mello tells him when Hannah has long left with affronted look and "hmpf!" of contempt, "Near has the chick - Valerie Valentine or whoever - but she's not Zodiac. Don't ask me why the hell I know, I just do - it'd just be too goddamn easy, and besides, she doesn't seem the type. Malicious, yes; psychopathic, obvious - but not _this _planned, not this deliberate. Chalk it up to Mello senses or what have you."

"Nice to know," Matt said, scooping out a sizable portion of ice cream for each of them. "Now tell me what the hell you meant by running off and nearly giving me a heart attack."

Mello shrugged, wrapped his hands a little tighter around his coffee. "I told you, Matt, it was only -"

"Save the B.S., Mels. You're a good liar, but I'm your goddamn best friend."

Mello was silent for a while, stirring sugar and cream into his coffee and watching them dissolve in the black liquid.

"I was pissed," he replied, quietly. "I mean, really really ticked off - not just at Near, at myself, too. I mean, I knew Jacqueline wasn't Zodiac, but damn, this was my case - mine. I'd found her, not Near."

"_We _found her," Matt corrects, pushing a bowl of rocky road towards Mello, "though don't let that encourage you - I still think this is the stupidest idea you've done since trying to set that cat on fire."

"So," Matt continued, ignoring Mello's glare, "what happens next? We going to keep on doing this case so you can continue trying to shoot yourself every time Near gets half an inch ahead of you?"

"Matt. You're not my damn nursemaid."  
"I know. I'm just your damn best friend."

Neither spoke for a while. Matt sipped his coffee while Mello sprinkled copious amounts of chocolate chips on his ice cream.

"Look," Mello says, waving his spoon in the air, "I'll be better, okay? I'll be careful. I'll take precautions, I'll take my damn meds. I'll be fine. But right now we've got to focus on the other thing - on catching this Zodiac bastard, stopping these killings."

Matt hesitates, and then he smiles, weak and wary and faint.

"Alright," he says finally, "we'll be careful."


	17. XVII

A/N: Soo...school starts tomorrow. Which means seven AP classes, ACTs, somehow getting into college, and absolutely no social life. So while I do have a bunch of chapters waiting to be beta-ed and while I will try my hardest to keep this story going, this year is going to be crazy and updates may consequently be slower.

* * *

She had been talkative. Much more so than your typical prisoner, much more so than you would expect someone bound and blindfolded to be. Words came easily to her, flowed like honey out of a mouth scarlet even without lipstick. Whatever else could be said about Jacqueline the Ripper, Valerie Valentine was certainly a cheerful captive to deal with. She had laughed when one of the guards had threatened to hit her, and the blushing man had turned away and remained silent for the rest of the interrogation.

It was a shame, Near thought, that she had to die.

Incompetent flunkies, the lot of them. It was not his fault, no matter what L's monotone questions had to imply, that they had not been watching when she wrapped delicate fingers around her neck and gently choked herself to death.

She had, however, left a note, written on the walls with a tube of lipstick she had somehow sneaked into the jail (again reinforcing his theory that he had deliberately been given Interpol's most incompetent men). And after only a few seconds of deliberation, Near scanned it into his data.

_Contrition never was my strength; I do everything, regret nothing. Here I lie, sins of a lifetime on my soul, and I do not fear. Choking, I smile, grin at him. All I did for him; all I gave for him, and he has given me death. _

_ Leave my kisses at his door._

_V. V._

* * *

_ "_Zodiac's work."

"No need to state the obvious, Mels."

Mello debated briefly about punching Matt then, deciding he didn't want another black eye, settles for glaring at him.

"Mels, you realize your patented death glare is kind of slacking, don't you?"

Mello scowls.

"Losing your touch, I think."

"Shut it."

"Make me." But Matt is smiling as he says it, and Mello decides - grudgingly - to let him alone. He had, after all, bought Mello chocolate this morning. An apology.

(Mello, of course, had bought Matt nothing. He fully intended to, later in day - he wasn't that callous of a bastard that he'd let his best friend buy him apology chocolate without something in return).

"So, Captain," Matt said, leaning forward on his elbows as he sat down at the kitchen table, "what next?"

"Wammy's a fairly paranoid place, isn't it? Keeps notes on all students and alumni?"

"You know it is," Matt said, sipping at his coffee. "So we're going to dig through top secret files today, are we? Looking for him."

Mello nodded.

_"Sweet," _Matt said, grinning faintly behind coffee steam. "I've always wanted to know what other people thought of that crazy bastard."


	18. XVIII

Wammy case files, Matt thought, were a hell lot harder to get into than he'd expected.  
Not that he minded, particularly. He liked a challenge, and everything up to this point had been so easy he'd almost forgotten he was dealing with the most batshit paranoid orphanage in the world.  
Which was true, but not completely. He did have some fondness for the place - he'd been raised there, after all, and fed when all the other foster homes had given up on him - but, still. It'd been a happy place, one where it was okay to hack into bank systems at night and play video games for hours on end, so long as you were prepared to write an essay on them.  
But. There was a whole lot of craziness going on in there, and in retrospect, Matt wondered if maybe it was a slightly bad idea to teach several of the world's brightest kids that they were above stifling societal norms like laws and basic human decency.  
Take, for example, the specimen sitting next to him, typing furiously as he hacked into yet another police system.  
Ah, Mello.  
Covertly, Matt sneaked a look at him. Too focused on his work, Mello didn't notice, only continued typing. Mello was always happiest working, anyway. Working, or as it had been at Wammy's, studying.  
Ah, Mels.  
Matt worried about him, sometimes. Which was, okay, kind of mother hen-y of him and which probably would have pissed Mello off to no end if he knew, but what the hell. The boy had the worst survival instincts of anyone he'd known, and that was saying a whole damn lot, seeing as Matt's dad had been the one with the clever idea to get drunk and high before driving on an interstate freeway.  
And now this. This new development which Mello, the stubborn pig, absolutely refused to be a good boy and acknowledge and take his damn meds.  
But really, what else could he do? Yell at Mello some more? Yelling at Mello was like yelling at a brick wall, albeit one that could punch you in the nose for doing so. Matt still had bruises from their last fight. Mello did too, which was kind of satisfying because he'd been the one who'd deserved it, but mostly, Matt just felt guilty about the whole thing. It'd always been Mello who'd done that sort of stuff. Not Matt.  
But, really, what else could he do?  
So he let Mello work. It made him happy, and for now, Matt had to be glad with that.

"Matt."  
"Yeah, Mels?"  
"You in yet?"  
"Mels, it's not that easy."  
"Well, you got into the other system fairly quickly."  
"Yeah, well, that was different."  
A silence, broken only by the sounds of clacking keys.  
"You?"  
"LA's got nothing L hasn't told me about him. Well, except gorier descriptions of how they died. B was an unresponsive prisoner. Told them nothing. But, going back over Near's files, I noticed something. B's first victim was strangled. The Valentine girl choked herself to death."  
"Oh." Then, quietly, timidly, "Mels, do you think, maybe, you're being a little - you know - apophenic about the whole thing? I mean, it might not be him."  
"Yeah. But it's just the way he was, isn't it? It fit him. 'Sides, Matt, Near agrees. He's searching for B, too."  
"I thought he was a cheating little bastard and a bloody meglomaniac of a twit?"  
"He is. But he's got L nearby."  
"Oh. Well, if that's the case, why am I sitting here hacking when we could just look at what he's got on B?"  
"Because it's top secret, Matt. L won't let him into the files, anyway."  
"Ah. Paranoia."  
Another silence. Comfortable, comforting.  
"You got anything from the note?"  
"Not much to go on. I mean, I've tried the usual - taking the first letter from each sentence, trying to find anagrams and codes. Nothing but gibberish."  
"Run it through a computer?"  
"Too random, too apophenic."  
"You just think you can solve it on your own."  
"I damn well can."  
"'Kay, Mels."  
A standing up, a yawn. A smile, a meeting of blue and green eyes.  
"Mels - so we're doing the Valentine chick tomorrow, right? I mean not literally, that'd be pretty gross and necrophilia besides, but we're investigating her, right?"  
"Why not now?"  
"'Cause I have class tomorrow, Mels, and I like getting at least three hours of sleep before putting up with Gregor and string theory tomorrow."  
"I thought you got an A in physics?"  
"I did. That's why I'm dreading the class. But, you know, mandatory science. Gotta graduate somehow."  
"Oh." Blue eyes, softening now.  
"Slacker. Go get some sleep."


	19. XIX

Halloween with Matt was the stupidest holiday in the world.  
For everywhere and everyone else in the world, the point of Halloween was clear: pillage, plunder, a celebration of capitalistic values while hearkening back to ancient pagan traditions, a festooned dance of past and present pervaded by the reward of material gain. Loot. Candy.  
Chocolate.  
Matt, though, disagreed. As far as Mello could tell, Matt treated Halloween as an extended version of Christmas, with the only exception being that they were expected to be Santa Claus, and the many and myriad crowd of angels, bed sheet ghosts, and various other giggly supernatural creatures were now the ungrateful gift recipients.  
Sometimes, Mello truly wondered how Matt had gotten into Wammy.  
He was giving away chocolate, for God's sake, good chocolate too, quality stuff from local confectionary stores and indie retailers -  
In Mello's opinion, there was something slightly sacrilegious in giving out perfectly fine chocolate to grubby masked children whose taste buds weren't even developed enough to appreciate the difference between a Cadbury and a Cluizel.  
So there they were, two still-barely teenagers, Matt in some outrageous ensemble that only elicited a response of FFVII or something (though whatever the hell that was Mello had no idea) and Mello in his most intimidating leather, Makarovs jutting menacingly from black holsters.  
He glared at any children stupid enough to take his chocolate. They giggled at him, and at his clothes.  
"Ooh, that's so cool!" one particularly stupid boy squealed, pointing at Mello's gun. "Is it real? C'mon, take it out! Shoot me! Shoot me!"  
Mello glanced at Matt. Matt gave him a look so pointed it had teeth.  
"No," Mello said, and then - because he was a vindictive bastard, after all - swiped a handful of his candy and left, leaving Matt to deal with the squealing child.  
He had work to do, after all.

When Mello is half-way through his third bar of sawdust Cadbury's and still no farther into Wammy's student files, the doorbell rings, again. Mello ignored it, ignored Matt's murmured words as he concentrated instead on his chocolate and his case.  
A few moments later, the door gently creaked open.  
Hannah came in, somehow managing to look even more ridiculous than Matt in a black wig and miniskirt.  
"Hi," she said.  
Mello raised a hand, then went back to typing.  
Hannah stood in the doorframe, shuffled a little as she smiled, tentatively. She was holding something in her hands - a casserole pan, Mello saw, and mentally retched at the thought of vegan casseroles.  
"Tom," Matt said, sighing as he walked into the room, "you could, you know, say hi back?"  
Mello considered it for the briefest of moments.  
"No."  
"It's okay, Matt," Hannah said, shrugging as she smiled. "I don't take offense or anything."  
She smiled. Mello's eyes narrowed at it.  
She'd been acting awfully nice lately, this Hannah girl, ever since that night when Matt had told her about, well, it. Sympathetic, even, saying hi and bringing over cookies every other day that Mello wouldn't eat for suspicion that they were poisoned.  
Mello distrusted sympathy. It smacked of ulterior motives, and of pity.  
Matt sighed, and lit a cigarette. Hannah gave him a reproaching look, and Mello - for once - wholeheartedly agreed with her.  
"Anyways," Matt said, taking his cigarette for a brief moment to speak, "you've been here practically all week, Tom. Ought to go outside. See the sun, or something."  
"It's ten at night, Matt - where the hell would I see the damn sun? China?"  
"My point," Matt said, glaring at Matt beneath faux blonde hair, "is that you need to get out more. You can't stay cooped up in this apartment forever - hell, I don't know why you'd want to."  
He paused, took a slow drag before continuing.  
"There's a party tonight," Matt said, "want to come?"  
"No."  
"Too bad. You're coming. 'Sides, there'll be chocolate, and you'll be the one getting it."

Okay, so there was. Cadbury and Hershey. Toberone Mello surreptitiously stuffed into his pockets.  
There wasn't much else.  
Conventionally, of course, there were people, and lights, and music, and high quantities of spiked drinks that would leave everyone with headaches in the morning. A party, in short. Something Mello, once long ago, had used to enjoy.  
It would have helped, of course, if he had known anybody and not been in the middle of an important case that would prove to L his worth as a successor and had actually given a shit about the whole thing.  
As it was, he didn't. And so he stood there, in leather and boots, a lone, lonely figure that glowered at anyone within fifty feet. After a few minutes of this, all the other people - far more intelligent than the idiot brats who had come knocking at Matt's door - gave Mello a wide, wide berth.  
Mello liked that. Matt sighed at it, then went back to talking with other costumed guests. Mello watched him with a chocolate bar between his teeth.  
It didn't feel right, somehow, to see Matt there, causally striking up conversation and laughing with Hannah and people who were total strangers to Mello.  
(Mello had been more popular than Matt at Wammy, but they had been followers, not friends. Lackeys.)  
It felt wrong. It felt unnatural, and Mello was eternally grateful when Matt finally staggered over, clinging valiantly to sobriety as he asked Mello, hey wasn't that fun, it was nice, wasn't it, better than stalking Near all day, right?  
And because Matt was dead drunk and his friend besides, Mello said yes, and quietly took Matt's keys.

By the time they were back at the flat, Matt had sobered up considerably, Mello's hairpin swerves and general going-forty-kilos over the speed limit snapping him from his alcohol-induced half-doze.  
"Mello," Matt said, managing for the first time in several hours to not slur the words, "you are going to get us killed one of these days. I nearly had a heart attack on the way here."  
"Would have served you right, too," Mello said, but he helped Matt, still slightly inebriated, up the stairs. But damn, Matt was heavy.  
"Okay, party boy," Mello said, playfully shoving Matt into his apartment, "get some sleep before chem tomorrow."  
Yawning, Matt flopped onto the sofa, only pausing to tug off his shoes and ridiculous blonde hair. Mello extricated the laptop before Matt could fall asleep on it, and, sitting at the work table, turned it on.  
Oxford, London, Wammy, Eynsham, Westminster, Southampton -  
Southampton?  
"Matt."  
"Mmhf?"  
"There's been another murder."


	20. XX

"Gunfire," Mello said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop as Matt carried two cups of coffee over, "the woman was shot to death. Twelve bullets."

"Damn. A little overkill, don't you think?"

"That's not the point," Mello said, scowling to himself as he took his coffee, "the thing is, it's bullets this time. Guns. It's an obvious murder, but there if it's with a gun -"

"Could be Zodiac this time and not one of his tools, like that Valentine chick."

Mello nodded. "Exactly," he said, and scalded his tongue on his first gulp.

"Sorry," Matt said to Mello's glare, "I thought it'd be cool by now."

"Well then, you're a shit temperature gauge. No wonder you're retaking physics."

Matt shrugged, utterly devoid of contrition or shame. Mello glared, and waited for his coffee to cool.

"And twelve bullets, too," he continued, cautiously sipping, "twelve. Twelve signs of the zodiac - if it weren't for that, there'd be about no chance of this being Zodiac. But this - it could be a signature, a sign, a taunt, fuck, even a red herring for all we know."

"So," Matt said, causally drinking his coffee in gulps, "whattaya propose we do, Sherlock? Travel to Southampton and search for every psycho with alliterative initials?"

"Shove it, Matt. But we're go-"

"No," Matt said flatly, abruptly standing up. "It's reckless and stupid and pretty damn dangerous, and besides, it's unnecessary anyway."

"Matt, I told you, there's no need for you to act like you're my damn nursemaid -"

"Yeah, but somehow I'll be roped into going along and paying for the tickets, won't I? Besides, I told you, it's unnecessary."

"Oh, really?" Mello asked, glaring at Matt from behind his coffee.

"Yeah. B planned for four murders, didn't he? BB, QQ, BB, then him - B. The Valentine chick killed of asphyxiation, just like Bridesmaid. Way I figure it, if this Zodiac guy is really the B obsessed stalker you say he is, then there'll be three other people he's using: BB, QQ, BB. Then him, Zodiac. B."

"Oh."

"I only figured it out because of you," Matt added, trying to lessen the blow.

Mello nodded a little stiffly, and then suddenly brightened. "But Matt, I don't think that would work, see - Valentine only killed one guy. If there're going to be three cycles, then it won't work - unless," he added, trailing off, "the numbers of the killings followed a one-three, one-three pattern: 13 13, B B. Or some variation of it, since this guy's already been flexible with the other details - VV for BB, for example. But the one-three, one-three would break the three cycle theory -"

Matt shrugged. "Who knows? We already know this guy's probably batshit insane and anal besides. Hell, he could try to be clever and do both for all we know."

"Yes," Mello mused, "he could." He sipped his coffee thoughtfully, then, scowling a little, tore a chunk out of his Toberone.

"Okay," Mello said finally, "we'll just keep tabs on this murderer. Let others do the investigating. But only this once, and damn it Matt, if your theory turns out to be wrong, I will personally hack into your PlayStation with an axe, Matt, not a worm, but an axe."

Matt shrugged. "I'll get a new one."

Mello glared at him.

Matt smiled, and sipped his coffee.

And they sat there for a while, quietly drinking coffee as the sun arched into the sky.


	21. XXI

It was said that Molly McCollum - small, bespectacled, mousy-haired and eternally cheerful Molly McCollum - smiled as she did it, shot ten classmates to death with a grin on her small face.

And then, afterwards, she had vanished, a small wraith of a girl disappeared into municipal darkness.

After four weeks of fruitless searching, the embarrassed police pronounced Molly McCollum disappeared. Dead or missing.

Only –

Here is Molly, clothes raggle-taggle and torn, the M16 that had so puzzled the police slung over one thin shoulder. Glasses askew, orange sunlight reflecting off broken lens. Smiling. Not dead, only missing.

Here is Molly - eternally young, perpetually polite - as she gazes through the scope, waits patiently until victim is directly aligned with the crosshairs.

Here is Molly as she fires twelve shots as the stars turn on a dark, deserted street.

Here is Molly, as she walks over, drops a small piece of paper next to the limp body.

Here is Molly as she smile quietly to herself, soft and sweet.

And here is Molly again.

Again the machine guns; again the glasses; again it, that smile as branding as a burst of gunpowder.

Here is Molly as she raises her rifle, scopes her target, prepares to fire:

And here is Molly as she pauses, small mouth opens in one surprised "oh."

Fifteen guns are pointed at her.

And even then she does not stop, does not lose her smile or the cheer in her voice long after her glasses have been reduced to broken glass that grounds into fair skin and blood runs down porcelain cheeks. She smiles, smiles through the interrogation and the handcuffs and the spit that runs, with the blood, onto the floor.

When they realize that they will get nothing out of this girl, they put her in isolation.

Here is Mary McCollum as she is pushed into the cell. Here is Mary McCollum as she slowly stands up, gazes at the bright walls around her.

And here is Mary McCollum as she very calmly sinks two teeth into her finger until she breaks skin. Very calmly, she does the same to her other fingers, and with bloody hands finger paints a message on the wall.

Here is Mary McCollum as she examines her fingernail painted red by blood, idly, like any teenaged girl would.

Here is Mary McCollum as she smiles, smiles and forces two red fingers into lens and cornea.

Here is Mary McCollum, the blood running down her cheeks like scarlet tears, as she crashes her head down onto the blinding white floor.

Here is Mary McCollum as she smiles, smiles as her eyes slowly close.

_You are blind, all of you. You are vindictive yet cowardly. Unlikely that by now you have even begun to see the error of your actions, the horror of your acts. Righteousness in this world is a fabrication, and you are fool for believing it. Justice is a sham, and you are frauds. Only he is pure, only he is true._

_M. M._


	22. XXII

A/N: Bleh…sorry for not updating. Homework. It kind of fails.

"Blunt trauma," Mello said, "B's second victim died of blunt physical trauma."

"Seeing a pattern?"

"It doesn't seem right, though. It breaks the whole one-three, one-three cycle -"

"So?"

"So it's not right. I mean, this guy's already been flexible with the other details - VV for BB, for example, MM for QQ. There's no correlation between the initials - nothing significant, nothing important - it just seems so sloppy."

"Well, I dunno Mello, maybe Zodiac just isn't really a obsessive compulsive?"

"But B was."

"And you."

Matt smiled, unperturbed under Mello's glare, and after a while, Mello stopped glaring. Scowling, he chewed pensively on his chocolate.

Losing his touch, really.

"How's Wammy's coming?"

"Almost. I'm pretty sure Watari designed it, not L, but it's pretty damn fun having a challenge, for once. How's the note coming along?"

"Nothing. I've tried analyzing the two notes in tandem -"

"And?"

"Gibberish. But if your theory's correct, there'll be at least one more note."

"Joy." Then, tentatively, "Mels."

"Hm?"

"Do you think - maybe - that you're spending too much time on this case? I mean, I know, there's not much else for you to do, but I don't know, you could do something else, once in a while -"

"Matt, people are getting killed -"

"Yeah, but that's not the point, is it? It's Near, isn't it? It's L. That's the point of this whole thing, the whole reason you took this case on. It's always been the point."

"Matt -"

"All I'm saying, Mels, is that I don't think this is really healthy. Justice is great and all, as is handing Near's ass to him on a platter, but you need to, you know, do something else. Once in a while. Read a book. Play a video game."

"Matt, not this argument again, the whole 'you really ought to get a hobby' spiel - what do you want me to do? Pick up knitting?"

"Mels -"

I want you to stop this. To stop being obsessed with Near and L and being top, to stop making everything a damn contest, to stop trying to be L all the damn time –

But that was who Mello was, wasn't it?

"What?"

"Nothing."

And Mello leans back and smiles, a smirk of victory, of an argument well won.


	23. XXIII

"Matt."

"Mels. Where've you been?"

Mello doesn't answer, only sits down in the chair next to Matt, and he doesn't need to, not really. The smell of gunpowder clings to Mello's clothes, a dusty, dark scent like fire-scorched brimstone, and the tips of his fingers are blackened with soot.

Matt disapproves (of course) thinks it unnecessary and paranoid and, well, ridiculously dangerous and fate-tempting, but (of course) says nothing.

"Wammy's?" Mello asks, not really paying attending as he rummages for a chocolate bar with one sooty hand.

And Matt grinned, grinned as he pushed his goggles up and turned the computer display towards Mello.

"Just B's files. But we're in."

"Other kids reported being terrified of him. Few friends."

"Big surprise there."

"There was A," and both flinched, just slightly, at the name, "they were friends. After A's death, B became considerably more - ah - unhinged. If that's at all possible."

"I doubt it," Mello said, unwrapping another chocolate bar, "he was always a pretty damn big nutter. Used to go capture mice and squirrels and cut off their tails for fun, did I tell you that? We were seven, then. Crazy thing is he was never caught. You'd think after five screaming kids reporting on the whole thing…"

"Backup, remember?"

"Yeah."

They were quiet for a while, Mello chewing his chocolate as Matt quietly read.

"Says here there was this one chick - Caroline, or C - who had a thing for B."

"Mm-huh. So apparently budding serial killers are attractive. Rank?"

"Doesn't say, but they weren't exactly inventive back then. I'd say third, if we go by the whole alphabetical organization thing. They changed it when we came along, of course."

"Pity the poor kid who was Z."

"Mello, I don't think they'd be that cruel. After G or H, they probably just gave everyone else random letters or something."

"Maybe." Then, changing tack, "Is there anything else?"

"Nothing important - wait. Says here before B came to Wammy, he was at an asylum. St. Christina's Children's Hospital."

"Wouldn't surprise me. What was he in for?"

"Doesn't say much. Schizophrenia was the diagnosis."

"Not severe sociopathy?"

"No. Guess he was too good an actor for that."

"Mm. How's hacking into St. Christina's sound?"

A pause. Matt pushed his goggles up, looked grave and uncertain for one brief second.

Then, smiling again, "fine. But tomorrow, alright?"

St. Christina: the patron saint of mental disorders


	24. XXIV

Tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes and then they are _in._

"There," Matt says, as the digital clock flickers a bloody _2:00am_, "a little late, but what the hell. All yours, Mels."  
"A little late, Matt? You can do better than that."

"When I've actually slept, yeah," Matt said, yawning (very showily, very unnecessarily) as he kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the unmade bed. "Mm, sleep…"

"Slacker," Mello muttered.

"Oh, come on," Matt said, his eyes still closed, "you're showing no one up by playing insomniac all day. Night. Whatever."

"Sleep is for the weak."

"Or those who don't, you know, like hallucinating after missing ten REM cycles."

Mello rolled his eyes, but kept quiet, and within minutes, Matt was sleep.

Slacker. But Mello was hard on his friends, he knew that. And so Mello let him sleep.

Now, however, was not the time for getting self-introspection bullshit. Now was the time to search, to investigate, to think.

So. B. Backup, Beyond Birthday. Admitted October of 1989, year the Berlin Wall fell, year B's mother fell apart and gave up her only son to an insane asylum. That must have hurt. Though B, well, B -

He'd been a brilliant child, of course - Wammy material, even then. The nurse reports had all been positive, until B tried to strangle one of them. He'd been contrite afterwards, said he couldn't stop himself even though he wanted to, but Mello was pretty sure the B had just been curious. Wanted to see what would happen if he squeezed hard enough.

But they had believed him, nodded and upped his medication as the nearly asphyxiated nurse gasped for breath and rubbed the marks on her neck.

No friends. Others frightened of the small, dark-haired boy whose smile held jagged teeth. Mello suspected a trend.

He'd had a roommate, though. Zeno Barnes, an equally screwed-up motherfucker (well, okay, he was a bit young for that one, but Mello wouldn't have put it against any kid who stayed any length of time with B. But he'd done something worse, Zeno had, far, far worse.

Zeno had killed his own parents.)

But. That was beside the point. The point was that Zeno was promising, yes, a nice trail that needed further investigating. He had potential. But he was not important. Not yet. Not until Mello had gotten more information on him and Matt had hacked in A and C's files -

_And there was more, of course, notes to analyze, previous murders and murderers to investigate, but everything was going so fast fast fast, there was scarcely any time to do anything, much less pick up knitting or whatever the hell it was Matt had suggested._

If he been L, given L's resources and L's power -

No no no. L had not been the prize; it had been a formality, a title.

(_But titles had power_).

Mello stared at the screen, scrolled through reams of scanned blood pressure readings and blood tests. Nothing ordinary, no tidbit of information worth pursuing -

So it was onto Zeno, then.

And then, involuntarily, embarrassingly, Mello yawned. And realized, with a start, that it had been over three days since he'd had a decent night's sleep.

But what had it been that he'd told Matt? That sleep was for the weak, the human, those with no control over their own needs, was it not? And besides, there was so much to do do do, to investigate and analyze and find out -

In the morning, Matt finds Mello slumped over a keyboard, the computer screen still flickering faintly in the faint sunlight.

Matt smiles, and lets Mello sleep.

Wammy is the first one to report on the Penny Worthington murder, before BBC and even Ellesmere, the city where Penny had lived and died. Police likely still attempting to investigate before talking to the journalists.

Not that they needed to, not really.

The markers were clear enough: a bullet through the head, a knife slashed post-mortem across the face. And there was physical evidence, too, a hair that identified the murderer:

Sanders Sully, former army interrogator and brutal cocaine boss.

Obviously.

Unless you were a Wammy child.

Zodiac's weakness, after all (and B's as well, if you looked at it long enough), was that he followed pattern, was a devotee of parallelism and clues and infinitely ridiculous taunts.

So, logically, it would follow then -

But then it would be so _easy. _So _simple._

So horribly, horribly _sloppy._

Drumming his fingers on the table, Mello rips off a piece of chocolate, chews and stares at the computer screen.

All the evidence, of course. All the evidence pointed -

But. But butbutbut -

But.

And in a room much cleaner and not so far away, a small, white haired boy sat, slowly constructing a tower of Legos as tall as he was.

It all pointed to him, of course. That much was obvious. Even those dolts of policemen had managed to figure it out.

But. But butbutbut -

But.

_Too easy._

But.

Behind Sully, who?


	25. XXV

Alright, so you asked for updates, so here the are! Fall break does wonders for the Muses...

* * *

Zeno Barnes.

Intelligent, the files said - at five, not quite Wammy material but definitely brilliant, albeit just as batshit crazy as his roommate. Maybe that was why, strangely enough, Beyond had never tried to kill or at least creatively maim Zeno. Though, after years of normals, any halfway intelligent person must have been a relief too precious to kill -

"Hey, Thomas? Did you see where Matt stored the sugar?"

As a rule, Mello did not sigh. He glared.

And so he glared now, glared icy fire and chilled flames at the friendly face in the doorframe.

"You're his girlfriend," he said in his coldest voice, "you should damn well know by now where he keeps his groceries."

"Well, the thing is," Hannah said, sighing as she tucked a strand of long blonde hair behind her ear, "he's so inconsistent, Matt is, you know?"

She gave him a weary but ever-so-cheerful smile. Clearly expecting him to sympathize and emotionally connect.

Manipulative bitch. Mello would not fall for her cheap pseudo-psychological tricks at friendship.

"No."

She _shrugged, _had the temerity to vilipend his indifference with a smile and a raising of the shoulders.

"Well, you're lucky," she said, "Matt's _horrible _at organization." As if Mello didn't know, as if she were presenting some new, fascinating datum that would somehow pique his interest.

And despite the futility of it all, Mello glared.

Hannah continued smiling.

"Second drawer on the left, behind the peanut butter and Rockstar," Mello spat out, turning back to the computer and Zeno.

"Thanks," Hannah said, and smiled briefly before she left.

She wasn't worth the effort of glaring at, anyway.

So. Zeno Barnes. Intelligent, a diagnosed sociopath at the age when all children were mildly sociopathic -

"Thomas?"

Mello slammed the laptop display down, and then was deathly calm.

"_What."_

"Milk chocolate or semi-sweet?"

"Dark."

"Semi-sweet's all I've got, is that okay?"

Mello ignored her.

"Thomas?"

"_Fine."_

"Okay, thanks!"

Her voice, Mello decided, was the worst of it all

At least she was silent now, though, and he could concentrate.

Five minutes later, the smell of melting chocolate made it harder to, but Mello persevered.

Twenty minutes later, the smell of burning chocolate made it impossible to.

* * *

There was, in Mello's mind, nothing more blasphemous than wasting perfectly good chocolate.

So when the smell of burning Amedei (Amedei, he could tell, _his _chocolate and not the cheap puerile stuff Matt bought that tasted more like Nutella than cacao), Mello forgot about Zeno, forgot about B, forgot about Near and L and could only think, only focus all his genius on one thing, one fact:

His chocolate was _burning._

Laptop abandoned, Mello stomped into the kitchen -

And found Hannah, crunching away rice crackers as some Disney movie played and Mello's chocolate burned.

For a moment, Mello was almost struck incoherent with rage, and then he found his voice again.

"That's. My chocolate."

"Hm?" Hannah asked, mouth around a rice cracker.

"You. Used. _My. _Chocolate."

"Oh. Yeah, I didn't have any dark, and I thought you might like it more, besides."

Mello stared at her, and wondered if she either had bribed her way into Oxford or merely had a death wish.

"It's _burning."_

"Oh, that?" Hannah asked, turning off the television as she stood up and smiled at a motionless Mello. "Yeah, it's supposed to do that."

"Amedei. Is not supposed to be burnt."

"I know, I know, it sounds weird - all my friends thought so at first, too - but really, it's like burning marshmallows - there's this crispy yummy layer where the sugar's crystallized, and then under it, it's all gooey and sweet, too -"

Perhaps it was the silence, or perhaps it was Mello's stare that clearly said he thought she had gone completely mad, but Hannah stopped them, and flushed a red so vivid she looked faintly like a tomato for one short second.

"I mean, it does sound kind of strange - but try one! They're really, really good."

Smile a little less wide now, a little less sure, Hannah shoved on oven mitts and brought out two baking sheets with a smile, on which were the lumpiest, most misshapen masses of dough Mello had ever seen.

"Try one," Hannah said, beaming as she held out one of them to Mello.

Mello stared at it for a very, very long time.

Hannah's smile slowly began to fade, and Mello snatched the biscuit out of her hand before the smile had the time to disappear into the contours of a frown.

Fuck, it was no fun making people cry when they were inchoate and half-maudlin anyway.

Gazing speculatively at the biscuit one last time, Mello finally caved in, bit off the tiniest piece he could, and chewed.

Hannah watched him with bright eyes.

"Not bad," Mello proclaimed, swallowing. "Edible."

"Oh." Hannah's face fell, but only a little, and then it brightened again. "Well, maybe this wasn't my best batch -"

"Probably."

"But they turn out great most of the time, and Matt really loves them, and it might have been the oven - Matt's not so great with housekeeping, either - and, so, um, I'll be sure to bring over another batch when I can - I mean, if that's okay with you."

Mello didn't answer, merely picked slowly and meticulously at his biscuit.

He waited until Hannah had truly, really left, and then, piling a plate with the biscuit-things, went back into Matt's room and Matt's computer.

Right. Research.

Zeno would have to wait for another day, though, for there had been another murder. Unmarked by any note, it was true, but marked just as surely by the knife slash across the face.

For today, then, it would be Sanders Sully.


	26. XXVI

Short chapter is short. But I promise to update more often now – probably every weekend, if all things go well.

In other news, AP Chemistry should die. In a corner. Crying, like I probably would be if I wasn't restraining myself.

* * *

And then, almost before Mello gather the even barest facts, it happened again: another murder, another note.

The same town, too, as the other, unmarked murder and - and this is what stops Mello, what catches the breath in his throat.

Zodiac's victim was the wife of the previous victim. The woman and the children had been there, had cowered and whimpered as the man slashed strokes across a husband's face, a child's mother.

They had been in police custody.

And now the police had failed.

And now the mother was dead.

And now the child had seen both parents die.

* * *

Matt, of course, has heard everything, has known everything for a long, long time: he is not stupid, after all. He follows the news, and there is always, of course, Mello.

So when Mello tells him that this time it's Sanders Sully, the former drug lord, Matt already knows or course; but he feigns ignorance anyway, because he liked to see the excitement in Mello's eyes, likes to see Mello talking and working and so tenuously alive.

And so Matt knows, of course, long before Mello or official news circuits, of the double murder in Bradford, and it is why one chill Tuesday, he hurries back to his apartment, umbrella-less through rain and puddles and slick mud until he is there, there and dripping puddles onto the concrete as he fumbled for his keys.

With shaking hands, Matt unlocks the door to his apartment, and finds no one there. His eyes, Wammy trained, scan the room: kitchen conspicuously slightly less of a mess, books shoved under tables in a haphazard form of housekeeping.

His way, really, of being apologizing.

The _bastard. _He had left, left without even a note -

But Matt knows where Mello was, knows before he has even time to be aware of it.

_Bradford. _Mello had gone to Bradford.

_ "_Son of a _bitch."_

* * *

It is raining, the sky a night darkened grey and the water coming down in sheets when they finally arrive, stop in front of a cheap modern motel with a green-tiled roof that shakes under the rain.

He walks inside, a trail of wet footsteps trailing up to the shoddy structure.

"Name?"

"Alexander Campbell. Leeds police. Single room, no preference."

Quiet. The click-clack of hands on keys.

"Twenty pounds a night."

Devoid of suitcase, devoid of coat, devoid of everything except wallet and gun and chocolate bar, Mello hands the manager the money.

The manager smiles, briefly, and hands Mello his keys.

* * *

A few hours later, another boy arrives in Bradford, tall and gangly and red-haired and driving far too fast in a green car that hardly looks as though it could hardly survive the speed at which it is moving. Behind their goggles, his eyes have no gaze for the lush wildlife or the gingerbread house villages that surround the city; they are driven, emerald green pinpoints of focus.

His eyes are furious.

His hair is red, and soaking in the pouring rain.

Matt slams the car door shut, and throws his cigarette into the street. Where it lies, hissing wetly, smoldering in the November rain.


	27. XXVII

Happy Halloween, everyone! I don't have candy, but as a late-night present, here's fanfic!

* * *

It is still raining, drops mixing with morning fog when the door slams and Mello stalks into the Bradford streets. There is a chill in the air and Mello's eyes are impossibly cold.

Because he will do it. He _will _find Sully, and when he does, there will be hell to pay.

Several miles away, another boy wakes from a fitful sleep, and bleary-eyed, shoves on a pair of goggles as he stumbles into the streets. Adrenaline and rain soon sweep the sleep from his eyes, and then they are bright and furious.

Because when Matt finds Mello, there will be hell to pay.

* * *

"Left," Mello tells the driver, and he obliges.

Slowly, the police station comes into view. Mello watches it, one gloved hand clutching a chocolate bar and a rosary, the other firmly wrapped around his gun.

He doesn't know much about Sully, but Mello knows enough to realize that for all his weeks of practice, Sully will shoot him to pieces in a fight. And for all his current anger and famed recklessness, Mello is not that foolhardy, not that ready to die lost and defeated and second best.

Besides, if Matt was correct, then Zodiac would be next. And Mello wants to live because he wants to see the fear in that bastard's eyes.

And so it is to Bradford police, first. No private investigation, for that would be suspicious; no impulsive chase after a lunatic and experienced murderer - for though every bit of Mello itches to do it, to let go, be stupid and rash and shoot, shoot, shoot until every bullet is gone and blood colors the air red, he does not. Will not.

Because L would not.

L is calm, L is cool. L observes, L lingers back and watches. L waits. L is careful.

And so Mello will be.

That doesn't mean he has to like it, though. Or that he can't have a little fun.

So he raises his head a little higher, makes his gaze a little colder and his eyes a little haughtier, slams the police door a little harder than necessary, stalks across the crowded room with just a touch more menace than necessary.

"Alexander Campbell," he says, flipping open his badge in the bewildered police chief's face, "Leeds police. I'm here for L."

Mello allows himself just a moment to savor the shock on the man's face, to enjoy the hush that suddenly pervades the room at L's name.

The police chief opens his mouth to talk, his face a caricature of confusion and incipient fury, but Mello stops him.

"If you have any doubts about that I am working with L, I suggest you contact him directly." He pauses, then, allows his words to linger in the air for a moment. "If that proves to be too troublesome, Leeds police records and Eynsham police will be more than able to verify my connections." And they would. Matt had done a thorough job, created a whole false history and a whole fake squad for Alexander Campbell and Benjamin Gibbet - every record would verify their existence and involvement with L.

Well. Every record except L's.

The police chief opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Mello watched him, impassively.

"You - if you're with L -"

"Obviously. Again, if you want further proof, I suggest you contact him yourselves. Either way, I am a member of the police force, and so you would be best advised to cooperate."

The chief's eyes narrowed.

"You're not a Bradford man."

"No. As I have clearly delineated, I work in Leeds. But again - and this is the third time I have said this - I, above all, work for L."

All around the room, time slows. Coffee, halfway to mouths, hangs in the air, suspended, afloat as every person in the room stares at Mello. At Mello, and at the rapidly reddening face of their chief.

The chief breaks first.

"What do you want?" he asks, spitting the words out like poison.

"_L," _Mello replies, taking out his chocolate bar and resting his teeth on the edge of mahogany smoothness, "would like full scans of the body and note, along with whatever forensic analysis you have done of them, sent within the next twenty-four hours. Currently, though, he would like me to collect several samples from the body for private investigation. If you wish to persist in obstinately distrusting me - and, by extension, L - then I will permit you to supervise my actions."

Mello smiled, and with a _crack, _bit off a sharp-edged square of chocolate.

"Look, whoever you are, there is absolutely no proof -"

"Ah, Daniel, let the kid play detective," a tall (and extremely busty, Mello had to admit) officer yelled out, grinning as she leaned back in a spindly metal chair. "If he's lying, the worst the kid does is muck around a little. No skin off our backs. But if he's bona fide working for L, well, then, here's someone to take this mindfuck of a case off our hands."

"Thank you," Mello said, very deliberately ignoring the (rather unprofessional) wink the officer gave him. "Now. Please. L's time is very important."

For a moment, the police chief looked as if he would protest again, begin screaming and shout for backup and engage in whatever other similarly ridiculous histrionics deemed somehow necessary, but then he suddenly stopped, glared one last time at Mello, and then - thin lipped, still faintly belligerent - gave him a short, angry nod.

"I want proof, though," he said. "If _you," _disdainful glance at leather, short, lingering touch of contempt at the battered holster and gun, "really want me to believe that bullshit about working for L, then L better damn well be contacting me."

"What L does and L does not do is purely his business. I am not an collaborator, merely an adjunct. Though I have no doubt L will do what he deems proper, I have little influence in his decisions."

And though he tries to restrain himself, to be calm and cool and collected and L, Mello can't help but smirk at the fury on the man's face.

* * *

Bagged samples in hand, Mello pauses, then, turns around and slowly appraises the room full of silent, staring officers.

"If you have any thoughts of tailing me," he says, slowly and coldly, "please feel free to do so. I have nothing to hide, and perhaps doing so would fully convince you that I am not, in fact, your sought for serial killer. I would like to tell you, though, that L dislikes being mistrusted."

And with a smirk curling at his lips and a haughty gleam in his eyes, Mello walks out of the station.

He wasn't worried. True, he had not been as careful as L would have been, but that was okay. Mello liked danger.

Besides, there was only a thirteen percent change they would follow him. After all his bluster and showy condescension, only an idiot would mistake him for a secretive serial killer.

So it is that smiling broadly, Mello stalks into the soggy street -

Only to freeze, stop as a voice catches at him.

"Hey! You! Stop!"

Mello turns-

And sees her, a little girl with curls and hands on hips and a scowl almost adult in its ferocity.

* * *

A/N: Having never had the particular pleasure of being apprehended by the police, I have no idea what the inside of a police station looks like. So, um, yeah…


	28. XXVIII

Well. Perhaps not so little. Eight or seven, Mello would judge - his age, when he came to Wammy's. He judges it not so much as by her size - she is a tiny thing of a child, all elbows and sinew and bone - but a stance, a certain wary look in her eyes that speaks of a childish worldliness no six-year-old can adopt.

She is thin and wiry, as he was then, gestalt ground with her cacao skin and coal-black hair. Her black dress is torn, and her hair ribbons loose, and there is a sort of angry determination in her eyes.

She is, Mello realizes with a sudden burst of self insight, himself at seven, himself at eight. Himself now, nearing twenty and full of snarling anger that somehow even he himself cannot fully harness or comprehend.

And so he knows what she says next, knows it before she says it and knows it before she perhaps even has time to think of saying it, because he has been her and, without meeting her in dreams or reality, knows her.

"What the _hell _did you think you were doing?" she spits, with all the venom of children whose strongest curse words are 'hell' and 'damn.'

"I saw you there," she continued, pointing one thin finger at Mello, "saw you talking with the _police_man, too. All suspicious-like, too," she added, crossing her arms across her chest as she glared at him.

Mello considers this statement for a moment, but only for a moment. Then he leans back, blunts his smile only slightly as he answers.

"Yeah," he says as he bites down on his chocolate, "I was."

"Why?" she demands.

"Because I'm investigating, undercover."

"Oh." She is silent for a little while, a little confused as she determines the significance of the words. "Are you - are you a detective, then?"

He nods. "Alex Campbell. I'm with Leeds."

"Di. Short for Diana," she says, grimacing at the name. Then, timidly, "are you really a detective?"

Mello fights the urge to roll his eyes, but nods, nevertheless.

"Show me, then," Di demands. "Where's your badge, where's your magnifying glass?"

"My badge," Mello says, lazily pulling it out. "And I'm afraid we don't use magnifying glasses anymore because forensic scientists have far more accurate equipment."

Di considers that for a second, then nods. "That makes sense." And her glare softens slightly, turns into curiosity as she sits down on the police station steps and stares curiously at him. And, Mello notices, just a little hungrily at his chocolate bar.

"Chocolate?" he asked, sitting down beside her and breaking off a piece. He held it out to her between leather-clad fingers.

"No thank you. Sarah says eating chocolate makes you fat," she said, primly folding her stick-thin hands in her lap and staring far, far away.

"Well, then, Sarah's a pretty damn big idiot," Mello said. "You're too young to be anorexic just yet. Take the chocolate or I'll shove it down your esophagus."

Di hesitates, but only a moment before she warily takes the chocolate. Still keeping both eyes on Mello, she took a bite out of the square, chewed slowly -

And then gagged, and spit it half-eaten chocolate onto the concrete.

"It's - it's _bitter!" _she said, staring at the remaining chocolate in her hand.

"Obviously. Otherwise it'd be candy, not chocolate."

"No it's not! Chocolate is sweet and yummy, not like - this stuff is."

Mello shrugged. "Whatever suits you."

They sat there for a while, in silence. Di slowly kicked her feet out into the street, cast darting looks at Mello, who sat calmly eating his chocolate.

"You know," Di said finally, slowly, "if you're a detective, you're probably looking for the man who killed my parents, right?"

Mello nodded, bit off another square of chocolate.

Another silence.

"He was tall," Di said, without looking up, "and kind of thin, and he wearing this black coat and his hair was kind of long, too - it was really dark, and I couldn't see very much, but it was kind of brownish, blackish, and he had all these scars on his face. And really scary eyes," she added, then fell silent.

Mello nodded. "Thank you."

She nodded without looking at him. "Aren't you coming to write that down?"

Mello shook his head. "I don't need to." And it was true.

"Oh. Okay." And she accepts it, takes the reassurance with the trust of a much younger child, a much more innocent little girl in hair ribbons and black patent leather shoes.

"When you catch him," Di said slowly, "tell me."

"Oh?"

She nodded, and then suddenly met his eyes, fierce and feral in stocking feet. "Yes. I want to seehim. I want to _hurt _him."

"Oh." A pause, the crackling of foil being peeled away from chocolate. "Afraid I can't do that. Against procedure."

"But he killed my parents -"

"I know. But there are procedures. Don't worry, though," he said, talking before she had time to protest, "I'll make sure the bastard gets what he deserves. I'm make him _scream."_

"You will?"

Mello nodded, and this time there was more than a little of Di's ferocity reflected in his eyes. "Promise."

"Oh." She was silent for a while, and then she smiled, and for a moment was the little girl Mello had first thought her.

"Thank you," she said, very sweetly, very genuinely as she slowly stood up, brushed the dust from her dress.

"My auntie's coming to get me," she said, lifting her dress as she walked towards the police station door, "and she said to wait for her."

Mello nodded, watched her creak open the heavy door. One foot inside, though, Di paused, turned and gave Mello one last, curious look.

"What's a bass-tard?" she asked.

"Oh - um, uh, ah - something you shouldn't know."

"That's what they always say," she said, crossing her arms across her chest again and pouting ever so slightly. "But they're _wrong. _I know lots of bad words, like damn and ass and even the g word - Sarah _screams _when I say that one."

"I'm sure you do."

"I _do."_

"Just don't repeat them to your aunt, alright?"

"I won't," she said. "I'm too smart to. I got almost all As last year, except for a B in math. I _hate _math."

She smiled at him again, and despite himself, Mello couldn't help but smile back. Just a little.

"Well," she said, bouncing a little in her black dress, "bye."

She smiled at him one last time, and then shut the door and was gone.

* * *

Mello is still there, chocolate bar half-eaten in his hand and sitting on the steps when Matt stalks over, fury only amplified by the light drizzle that falls on them all.

"You're a bastard, you know that?"

"Bass-tard."

Matt scowled. "What?"

"Bass-tard. That's what she thought it was?"

"Who?"

"Di. Diana. The girl whose parents Zodiac killed."

Matt's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes does, softens just a little.

"You talked to her?"

"Yeah," Mello says quietly, eyes still somewhere far away. "I did."


	29. XXIX

A/N: This chapter was beta-ed by the wonderful Serria :) If you haven't already, go check out her stories!

* * *

Mihael Keehl spent the first five years of his life in Siberia.

It was a good place, his mother had reminded him: a nice home, nice food, and such pretty trees and look at the mountains! - so please, Misha darling, don't cry, sweetheart, please, you'd break your mother's heart if you do. Please, Misha.

And Mihael hadn't, even if he was bright enough to see how in winter his father's tears stuck to his cheeks and the only sign of Christmas were the evergreens shading their small cottage. But he had been a good child, and he had not wanted his mother to cry. Besides, the cottage had books, Tolstoy and Pushkin, testaments old and new next to samizdat in a dozen different languages that Mello eagerly devoured, even if his mother had to explain the English and French to him at first and refused to tell him what "adultery" meant. In their thatched home that no one visited, Mello read, and learned, and waited.

Sometimes, his father would come home, snow on his boots and a bundle of paper in his hands. And it was when Mihael was three that he began to notice that whenever his father came home with a newspaper in his arms, his mother's smile would slip and come back tight and wrong, and that she would always hush him and give him a big glass of milk that would make him irresistibly sleepy.

Thereafter Mihael would always spit the milk out the window. When his mother wasn't looking, of course.

So it was that at age three, pretending to be asleep as he secretly eavesdropped on his parents, Mihael Keehl learned his first lessons in espionage.

At first, Mihael didn't understand much. There were words like "Chechnya," "rebels," "Yeltsin," words even Dickens didn't use in his thousands of pages. Any ordinary three-year-old would have soon lost interest, but Mihael was a curious child. Inquisitive. Bright.

And so, one night when his parents had long dozed off to sleep, Mihael crept outside, and in dappled moonlight, picked up a faded sheet of newspaper.

He read, and soon his eyes grew as round as the moon above him.

There were rebels, the newspapers said, dangerous (dangerous!), people from Chechnya, the place he had heard of only in whispers. Mihael didn't know what a rebel was, but it sounded exciting.

And this man, this Yeltsin, he was the president (Mihael knew what "president" meant; his mother had said it meant "leader," which meant a bad person), and he didn't like the rebels, oh no no no. He was a bad person, and they were the good people, and they were fighting, really fighting, as in real life fighting with guns and probably swords, too! Like in a duel!

It was _just_ like a novel.

So slowly, with a child's sense of morality, Mihael became convinced that he - and mother and father, of course - were the good ones, the rebels the newspaper had talked about. He didn't tell his parents this, of course; it might have upset them that he had known so much and been sneaking outside at night, anyway.

Two years passed like this.

And then, one rare sunny day, two men in boots and black came through the moss and mushrooms.

The day fractured into light and sound.

His mother, screaming as she pushed him into the house; his father, something steely in his kindly grey eyes; the men, in their sturdy black boots as they walked towards the house as his father raised his old hunting rifle; Mihael, as he watched with nose pressed to kitchen window because this was exciting, it was exciting, the first exciting thing that had happened to him in years -

And then cracks, cracks of sound that split the night and red, red, red everywhere.

Far away, men in gold-gilted office clinked glasses, congratulated themselves on a well done job, on moving a little forward in destroying the last remnants of the Chechnya separatists.

And in Siberia, a boy stared with clear blue eyes as blood blossomed in his mother's chest, and remembered not to cry.

That was Mihael.

And this is Mello.

* * *

Chechnya - a part of Russia that wants independence. Kind of like the Quebec of Russia. Currently, it's kind of independent, except it's also a Russian federal subject. It's complicated.

Misha: pet name for Mikhail in Russian (technically, Mihael is Slovene, but the Soviet Union was pretty big in its heyday and it's close enough.)

Samizdat: forbidden literature under the Soviet Union


	30. XXX

"I haven't found Sully."

"He won't be here, Mello. He's been doing this for years - he's good. He'll have left, long before now. C'mon," Matt says, holding out a hand towards Mello in the coming twilight, "let's go back."

"I told her I would find him."

"Then we will. Somewhere else."

"I told her I would make him _scream."_

"C'mon," Matt repeats. "Let's go."

* * *

They ride down the highway in silence.

Covertly, through the rearview mirror, Matt steals a glance at Mello.

Mello sits in the backseat, quiet, holding the chocolate bar between his hands like a crucifix. The foil is unwrapped, and gleams in the dim light.

"Mels? You okay?"

Mello nods, and is silent. Matt lets it go, and turns his eyes back to the road.

Matt had expected to be furious, as incensed and infuriated as he been when he had first realized that Mello had left. But when he had seen him there, blankly staring at a half-eaten chocolate bar, well, it had surprised even Matt how quickly his anger had dissipated.

But, then again, it had always been that way with Mello. Yet even after all this time, it scares him to see Mello like this. It reminds him of other moments - like the time they put snakes in ophidiophobic Linda's bed, or the that awful week, when Mello had refused to talk to anyone, only to finally break and tell Matt it was the anniversary of his parents' death.

But this time, there was something different behind Mello's gaze, something more dangerous than childish pranks or innocent sorrow. Something red, something rusty and sharp and outlined in gunpowder and bloody twilight hues.

This wasn't the Mello Matt had grown up with. This was Mello with the childish anger gone, the teenaged brass polished, sharpened, given purpose and direction. Mello the rebel, Mello the workaholic, Mello the prodigy, Mello: his friend.

And it is the only last one, really, that matters.

"Mello," Matt calls without looking back.

"Hm?"

"I've gotten into A's files. But there's a snafu."

"What?"

"Mello, there wasn't just one A when B was at Wammy's - there were two."

"Tied?"

Matt shook his head. "This was when they started breaking with the whole alphabetical rank system. Says the other A - Ánle was his name - was kind of quiet, withdrawn. A drifter, middle-ranked. Not L material."

"Hm." Mello was quiet for a while, then, unpeeling his chocolate bar, broke off a piece with a loud crack. "Any connections to B?"

Matt shrugged. "Says here he became more withdrawn after A's suicide, and A was close to B. He left before us. He's a terrorist now."

"Matt, I think that last point was pretty fucking pertinent. What organization?"

"IRA." Taking one hand off the wheel, Matt lit a cigarette, and smoke soon filled the confined car. Mello grimaced a little at it, but otherwise did nothing, only stared straight ahead with eyes now hearteningly alert.

"Yeah." Matt was quiet for a while, new secondhand smoke slowly seeping into the already tobacco-scarred car. "You know, between the suicides and serial killers and terrorists, I'm seriously doubting Wammy's whole child-raising philosophy. Seeming more like a orphanage for budding mafiasocs everyday."

"Matt. The point. The IRA guy. What else did you get on him?"

"Nothing else interesting. They're fairly pithy with the personal notes. Class ranks, grades - that sort of stuff, there's reams of. You look through the notes, when we're back."

"Will. But what about the other A? Adept? The C girl?"

"Going to be a while. Took me near a week to get into Ánle's files." Matt slowed down then, turned back and grinned at Mello. "Damn, it feel goods to have a challenge, doesn't it?"

And Mello grinned back.

"Yeah. It does."

Smiling, Matt turned his eyes back to the road.

But the silence did not last for long, for Matt - without turning around, without averting his eyes - broke it first.

"Hey, Mels, just a quick FYI here, but I'm pretty sure we're being followed."

"You just caught on?"

"No. I've noticed for about the last five minutes."

"Twenty."

"When'd the contest start?"

"Twenty minutes ago."

"Mels. When we're being followed by someone who is either a serial killer or the police, I don't think beating me's that damn important."

"Is too. Besides, it's just the police."

"…Mels. What did you do to them?"

Mello smiled.

"I offered the incompetent neophytes help."

"You offered, or you coerced them into accepting it?"

Matt took Mello's silence and widening grin for a yes, and subsequently groaned.

"Don't worry. I'll deal with them. Plan, Matt."

* * *

Okay, so as plans went, it wasn't the most complex one, but what the hell, it would work. Was all that mattered.

So when Matt finally stopped and the blue Camry parked a block away from them, Mello slammed the car door and walked - calmly, slowly - towards the shadowy figure exiting the car, never acknowledging it, never recognizing that it existed until it was there, mere inches away from him.

At which point Mello stalked forward, and _glared._

"What," he asked the voluptuous police officer smiling at him, "the hell do you think you're doing?"


	31. XXXI

MaffyUndead - somehow, the site wasn't cooperating and I couldn't respond to your review, but, just so you know, this first line is for you ;D

* * *

"What," Hannah asked, glaring at them over cups of tea, "the hell did you think you were doing?"

Matt shrugged, mumbled something incoherent; Mello chewed his chocolate; and Jean, the audacious little meddler, _laughed._

Hannah ignored her, only continued glaring at Mello and Matt, who was turning slightly red under her gaze.

Mello continued eating his chocolate. What the hell Hannah's problem was with him, he had no idea. And frankly, didn't give a rat's ass about.

"You," Hannah said after what was clearly supposed to be a dramatic pause, "had me worried _sick. _I come here last night with cookies and casseroles, hoping for you know, a nice, normal night, and then guess what? _No one's home, _no one's there, and there's no note or anything and your car is gone and you don't answer your texts and you're not at class the next and I text you fifty times and _you're not there _and you don't _know_-"

"We know," Mello cut in, snapping off a piece of chocolate. "You were histrionic and distraught and ate all the cookies after slipping off to cry in the bathroom."

Hannah glared at him.

"And you," she intonated, turning her glare now to him, "running off like that, what were you _thinking_ -"

"Maybe that I didn't want to deal with your annoying intrusive shit anymore?"

Unpeeling another inch of aluminum, Mello chewed, tossed the excess foil away, and slowly walked away.

Behind him, Hannah opened her mouth -

"Aw, ignore them, hon," Jean told a rapidly reddening Hannah, smiling as she placed one manicured hand on Hannah's knee, "they're _boys, _sweetheart. They do stupid shit like that all the time. It's okay. You're okay."

Jean smiled then, the smile slightly taking the edge off her holster and handgun.

For a moment, Hannah seemed on the edge of saying something, of retorting or arguing or (again) moving on to berating Matt, who sat there awkward and lonely and trying very hard to disappear into the peeling wallpaper -

And then Hannah closed her mouth, and burst into tears.

Matt sat there for a few moments, trying desperately to smile reassuringly and comfortingly as he stared at his girlfriend and the policewoman slash former scary stalker lady who had laughed in Mello's face (never a particularly intelligent thing to do, though the expertise with which she handled her gun let her get away with it) patting said girlfriend on back and saying _there, there, there, there. _

Matt sat there, twiddling slightly with an unlit cigarette. And then, very quietly - when the sobs had gotten to a truly hysterical level - he stood up and left, Hannah's sobs still resonating down the hall of the small apartment.

"Matt."

"Mels," Matt sighed, fishing in his pocket for a lighter. There were a few moments of silence in which he fumbled with the ignition gears, then a few more as the room filled with smoke.

"Mels," Matt sighed, leaning against a wall, "we're in deep shit, aren't we?"

_"You're _in deep shit," Mello corrected, not turning from the computer.

"Mmf? The police chick with the big gun and not forged badge who happens to be after your ass and onto your bullshit isn't a concern, I take it?"

"Inconvenient. But negligible."

Matt sighed, blew out smoke in a long, exasperated breath. Then, slowly, smiled.

"'Kay, Mels. Whatever you say."

In the living room, Hannah began, very softly, to keen. Mello mentally envisioned her rocking back and forth in the rocking chair Matt didn't own, a lace handkerchief pressed daintily to her face as tears ran down her face, then wiped the image away, too saccharine and Dickens-esque soppy to even stomach visualizing. It physically hurt.

Pinching out the remains of his cigarette, Matt winced at Hannah's cries, shuffled slightly on old carpet. Mello patiently scanned page after page of score reports and doctor's notes, waited for the inevitable.

"Um, well," Matt began, then stopped, cleared his throat once, twice. "Well, I mean - God, Mello, _Hannah_ -"

"Sounds maudlin and pitiable and pathetic," Mello said, not looking up from page after page of descriptions of Ánle, "with the last one referring to the pathos and not the pathetic part."

"Mels, you might be okay with Jean, but I am in some seriously deep, deep shit -"

"With Hannah. We know. Go out and apologize."

"Mels, I am _serious - _wait. Back up, rewind, what?"

"Apologize," Mello said, eyes still intent on the screen in front of him. "Tell her you're sorry, you didn't mean it, you won't do it again, whatever other shit she wants to hear."

Matt stared at him.

"What?" Mello asked, finally looking up from his computer screen.

"That was actually a reasonable, non-jerkass idea."

Mello shrugged, turned back to the files in front of him. "It's common sense."

"Yes, but…this is Hannah."

"So?"

"Nothing." Matt stood there for a while, watching Mello furiously read.

"You know something," Matt said slowly, "I think I will. Apologize, that is."

"Go ahead." Mello did not look back as the door slowly creaked to a stop, but when it did, he slammed the laptop down and sprawled out on Matt's bed.

Useless. Not utterly so, but useless nevertheless. Intriguing. But Matt had been right: there had been little of value buried within page after page of documents.

Nevertheless -

What he had found _had _been interesting.

Ánle, by all appearances, matched none of the typical serial killer stereotypes. Decent grades, decent Stanford-Binet. As a kid, he'd been close to A, of course, and it was well-known that A had been the closest thing to a friend Beyond Birthday had ever had, but other than that, there was little to incriminate Ánle. He'd liked animals, one caretaker had reported, adopted abandoned baby birds and squirrels with broken legs, nursed them back to health. During the summer, he kept jars of fireflies by his desk.

But behind this Ánle, innocent, green-eyed boy of ten, Mello wondered. Wondered if behind the charity and the altruism, there was a streak of quiet cruelness, if - like Peter Wiggin- Ánle had played a part in the innocent injuries, thrown rocks at mother birds, set traps to break and bend delicate bones. If, in the summer, some of those fireflies had not died from simple starvation, but had instead become fluorescent green streaks between pudgy ten-year-old palms. Ánle, for all his lackluster social skills and his unexceptional grades, was a Wammy child after all; he would have been more than able to hide small sadism if he wanted to.

Yet -

All very intriguing. Very interesting, Occam's Razor aside. But useless. Nothing as to Ánle's current whereabouts; nothing to indicate a given name from which the alias would stem, nothing about a possible motivation for joining the IRA except an Irish mother and an Irish name.

Nothing about B.

Mello blew out a breath, ran a hand through uncombed hair.

Useless. Absolutely useless.

But Mello had never been one for staring blankly at ceilings, never been drawn to the concept of catatonic uselessness or morose defeatism. And so, after a few seconds of glaring at the water stain on the ceiling, he stood up, picked up a plastic bag full of samples, and opened the door.

Hannah was still sniffling when he entered, though she seemed to have calmed down enough to glance up and glare at Mello as he entered the room. He ignored her, lacing up his boots and pulling open the front door.

"Hold up a second," Jean said, removing her hand from Hannah's shoulder as she stood up with a friendly smile, "where do you think you're going, huh?"

"Out," Mello said curtly.

"W_eeee_ll, can I follow?"

"No."

"Too bad," Jean said, grinning that hideously sunny grin of hers. "I think I'm following."

_"No."_

"Y_es_."

"N-_o_."

"Really," Hannah said, failed sotto voce, sniffling once as Matt put a hand around her shoulder, "I don't know why you put up with him, Jean."

Mello stared at her. Cogs turned in his brain, scrambled around in random directions and then breaking when the answer was realized.

Holy shit _no._

_ "_We are not," Mello said, voice slow and deadly, "friends. Of any caliber."

"'Course not," Jean said, and then - the infuriating little _bitch - _actually _winked, _winked as though it were all a huge joke in a low budget rom-com and she was the hapless protagonist. And it was such an aggravating move, such a gesture of calculated sadism, that for a few moments, all Mello could do was stare at Jean.

Then he walked out, slamming the door behind him, and strode quickly away.

A few moments later, Matt's door opened again. And within in a few steps, Jean had caught up with Mello.

"So where's our detective boy going today, huh?"

"None of your fucking business."

"Aw, c'mon," Jean said, grinning as she trotted beside him, "be a good sport. I only want to help, you know."

"Then you can leave me the fuck alone."

"My goodness, such _language. _Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"I don't have a fucking mother."

"Oh." Then, "touchy subject?"

"No."

"Well, then, I'm going to tell you that she probably wouldn't have approved of this very much. Impersonating a cop under a fake name and going vigilante when you haven't even finished college, sweetheart."

"I told you, I am Alex Campbell, I work for Leeds. There are records if you want them, phone numbers if fellow members of my team if you want them -"

"Hon, you're not a copper. There might be records and there might be as much visible

proof as Daniel and the other guys might want, but I can tell, okay? Call it women's intuition.

Same thing that lets you know when your boyfriend's been cheating on you with your best friend. Though why the hell L would call on a kid like you in this case is beyond me. You got a grudge against this Zodiac guy, hon?"

"L called on me," Mello said very slowly, quickening his pace, "because I am competent. Far more competent than many of your men or investigators. This is not arrogance. This is the truth."

"Well, _okay, _there then, I believe you. Just wanted to get it out there, a general PSA you know, that this whole thing is kind of dangerous, especially for a kid like you. Just so you know."

Mello grit his teeth, but was silent the rest of the way to the post office.

"Mail, huh?" Jean asked. "Going to send your girlfriend a letter 'bout the annoying officer you're eloping with?"

"No," Mello ground out, "I'm sending the evidence I collected to L."

""Didn't know L had an address. Seems kind of public for someone so paranoid, doesn't it?"

He didn't. But Wammy did, and so did Watari - fake addresses of large homes the

servants kept and roomed in. Addresses for the unsolvable cases, addresses for the letters of those children fortunate enough to have friends or family. But where L lived himself was as large a mystery to Wammy's children as what his face looked like.

But

it's not L that Mello would be sending his evidence to, not L but rather the white-haired boy working in his stead. A condescending, arrogant freak Mello could shoot in a heartbeat.

But it was hardly as though he had any chance. Matt had practically prostituted himself to use the lab equipment last time, and leaving the matter to the Bradford police was hardly wise. They were (with a few exceptions, Mello must admit), hardly competent.

And though Mello grudged even conceding this small observation, Near wasundeniably competent.

(And had better machines besides).


	32. XXXII

"You know," Jean said, hands in her jacket pockets as she grinned at him, "you're really horrible at this."

"Shut up."

"I mean," she continued, "you're not half bad for a civilian. Your aim's pretty good, for one - Hannah said you were practicing, so that's to be expected. But you handle it like you're someone out of a textbook, hon."

Mello ignored her, continued shooting at empty bottles, the sharp sound of shattering greeting each shoot. Only elementary physics, after all.

Jean's grin grew larger, Cheshire cat languid as she leaned against Oxford dorm brick and ivy. Slowly, she shook her head, once, twice.

If he had been L, Mello would have ignored her, given her no more notice than an empty glance and nonchalance.

As it was, he tried, tried to be nothing but coolness and indifference. But in the end, cool and indifferent had never been words to describe Mello.

"What?" he asked, whirling around in a motion of scruffy leather and anger. "What the fucking hell do you want?"

Jean tilted her head, and flickering a brief, muted smile at him.

"Only that you don't get blown to pieces when you get to Sully, hon."

Mello glared.

Jean shrugged, leaned back even further against the building as she lit one of Matt's cigarettes. In her flowered skirt and fleeced boots and red jacket, she looked (almost, briefly) like any other ordinary girl. A civilian, as she would have said.

Though more like the world's most irritating blonde whore, to be truthful.

Still glaring, Mello rummaged in a pocket for a chocolate bar, and violently bit off a square.

"The hell you care?"

Jean smiled, slowly, sadly.

"How old are you, hon? Eighteen? Nineteen?"

"None of your fucking business."

"You say that an awful lot. S'not the type of phrase that helps with the whole air of nonchalance."

"Fuck off."

"The point," Jean said, sighing as she examined the cigarette between her fingers, "is that while you're not bad at this thing, sweetie, you're still strictly civilian. And Sully isn't."

"Your point?"

"My point," Jean said, eyes away as she dragged on her cigarette, "is that I'm not. In a couple of months, you could be good - weeks, maybe, if you're as smart as Hannah says you're supposed to be - but that's by fooling around like you are now, and a few damn weeks aren't going to make up for years of experience. Me, on the other hand, I've got those years. And I've got a gun and you've got a gun and we've got targets right in front of us, so why don't I go and teach you how to use that piece of metal in your hand, hon?"

"The first trick to this thing," Jean says, "is to hit the other guy before he can hit you."

"_That _is the fucking pearl of wisdom you desperately needed to tell me?"

Jean shrugged. "Well, it's very important. It's the details we need to work on."

Mello glowered at her.

"Oh, don't be that way. No need to be petulant, now."

"And why the -"

"Fuck not, I know. Shush for two minutes and why don't I show you, huh?"

Mello continued glowering. Jean rolled her eyes, and then moved behind Mello, put one hand around his.

"Like this, hon," she said, leaning down as her fingers moving over his stiff ones, rearranging the digits into place. Up close, Jean smelt of vanilla, and her hair tickled Mello's cheek; Mello instinctively jerked away from it, but her hand held him steady.

"Thumb a little up, to the right - no, don't tighten up, hon, loosen up your grip, makes it easier to aim that way - _muuucch _better. See, now?"

And he did. Though she was irritatingly close and irritatingly patronizing and irritating in general, Jean _did _have experience. And she was, no matter how irritating, a good teacher.

"This?"

"Almost. It's only a few millimeters difference, but when you're in a firefight, those millimeters pretty damned important."

"Now?" Mello asked, adjusting his grip a little.

"Hm," Jean said, (thankfully) letting go of his hand and standing back, appraising the placement of Mello's fingers. "Yes, that's about it I think - no hon, don't let go of the gun, now. We still haven't actually shot anything, remember?"

* * *

It was six when they returned to Matt's apartment, six though the sun had not quite gone down and Mello protested but Jean insisted seeing as accidentally shooting returning college students was generally not a professional thing to do.

"Kind of a civilian thing to do, hon," Jean said, smiling at Mello over her cup of tea, "doncha know? And don't give me that look - I'm immune to death stares. Practice, you know."

Sipping his hot chocolate, Mello deigned to give Jean one last cold, appraising look. Which she laughed at, but what the hell. What the hell.

Practice had gone well. And in a week or two, perhaps, when he found Sully -

(if he had even a week)

well, perhaps. Perhaps Matt's worries would be in vain, after all.

So he drank his hot chocolate. Drank it, glowering all the while at the pretty blonde across from him. But there was less vehemence behind the glare, this time, and Jean seemed to sense it because her smile only widened with time.

Mello finished his cocoa, and then - very calmly, very coolly - left for Matt's room, ignoring the burst of laughter that erupted at his exit.

* * *

"Slacker."

"Ah, _c'_mon, Meeeellls -"

"Finish whatever level you're on, save, and then start your shit-ass computer and get your lazy ass to work. We're got a murderer to find, Matt."

"Yeah, well, I've got an evil necromancer supreme overlord to kick the ass of before he converts the innocent peasantry to a horde of mindless zombies -"

"Can you beat him in forty minutes?"

"_Forty? _I'm insulted, Mels. Twenty, tops."

"Hurry up, then."

And then there was nothing between them, nothing except the soft whir of machinery and the blip-blip of buttons and mechanized gunfire.

Nothing. As usual. The usual news reports; data, reams and reams of facts and figures, names, dates, cities -

Wait. The cities. Too random to be linked by proximity, yet too random to be mere apophenia -

"Matt."

"Hm? Something up, Mels?"

"I've figured it out."

"You know who Zodiac is?"

"No. But I have a clue. Look at it like this: Rochester, Glouster, Tisbury, Ripon, Eynsham, Hereford, Ellesmere, Bradford - if you rearrange the first letters of each of the city names, you get -"

"Peterborough," Matt whispered, "without a few letters."

Mello nodded, bit off a chunk of chocolate triumphantly. "Exactly."

"Damn." A pause. "So…how exactly does this help us, Mels?"

_"_What?_"_

"Way I see it," Matt said, shrugging as he reached in a pocket for his DS, "this doesn't help us much, does it? We've got eight letters - okay. That leaves us with four more, and there's a hell of a lot of places in England that start with O, U, or P."

"We don't need the P."

"Oh?"

"It's a clue - it's a taunt. P's last, P's Peterborough."

"And you know this how?"

"We've been over this before. Psychic senses, intuition, that sort of shit."

"Oh. How could I ever forget."

"Besides, it all fits that way. Fits B's style. Sense of drama."

"But this _isn't _B."

"Whoever it is wants to be, though they're either a genius at mind games or just pulling stuff out of their ass. But P's a clue, P's out. So we've got O, and U."

"So? What the hell does that tell us?"

"It tells us where the next murder is."

"Mels, I was joking when I was talking about Mello senses, you know that? "

"There's a pretty good chance," Mello said slowly, "that Sully's going to be in Oxford."  
"_What?"_

"If we're going by a muddled 1-3, 1-3 cycle," Mello said, teeth resting on the top of his chocolate bar as his spare fingers drummed on the tabletop, "then Sully's going to have three people killed. This next murder's going to be the end of him, the end of his cycle, and the city picked seems to correlate with the notoriety of the murderer. Valentine got Eynsham - a tiny city for a tabloid murderer - McCollum got Southampton - less large than Oxford, true, but she was less prestigious - and Sully, well, Sully's a god-fucking-damn international criminal. He'll get front page. And there's no bigger city that starts with an O or an U than Oxford. Oxford _fits, _Matt, it fucking _fits._"

Grinning, Mello snapped off a piece of chocolate.

Matt sat there for a few moments, the only sounds in the silence Mello chewing on his chocolate. In the muted lamplight, his eyes were hidden behind darkened goggles.

"Holy shit," he said, then stood up.

"Actually, it's fairly obvious -"

"Shut up, Mello. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy holy _shit._"

He was pacing now, actually pacing, stalking holes back and forth across the threadbare carpet, goggles pushed up over hair that flew in fifty directions, eyes strange, animated, fever-bright green -

"Mels," Matt said, stopping suddenly and staring with those strange, wild eyes at Mello. "We're in Oxford."

"No, really? I thought -"

_ "_Shut the fuck up, Mello. _Hannah's _in Oxford."

* * *

Ugh, school. Finals are coming up, but I'll try to get to Christmas in this fic before/on Christmas day.

So, what'd you guys think of this chapter?


	33. XXXIII

Well, damn.

Staring out across the rooftops stretched out beneath him, Mello scowled and gnawed at the edge of his chocolate bar..

Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.

Okay, Mello had to concede, it was nice to see Matt so energized for once - nice to see that he _could _be energetic about something other than Zelda or Java scripts - but, still.

It was annoying, really, that it was a _girl _he had to get so worked up about. And not even a decent type of girl, but a soppy mess of a girl who turned to pudding at the slightest thing.

Still -

With Sully (quite probably) wandering Oxford at the very moment, there _was _a very real danger. And, well, he couldn't let anything happen, could he? Not when he had promised

(_promised_)

that he would do it, capture Sully Sanders and bring him to justice.

And there would be no casualties.

Not even soppy messes of girls. No matter how much he despised them.

(_Because Mello kept his promises.)_

Mello's scowled deepened.

He bit off another piece of chocolate.

Goddamn it all.

Mello closed his eyes, slowly breathed out once, twice. Let the wind run through his hair.

When he opened his eyes, Jean on the roof, too, and staring quizzically down at him.

"_Holy _fuck," Mello snarled, trying hard not to sputter the words as he scrambled to his feet, "what the hell -"

"Your friend thought you were somewhere around here," Jean replied as she continued (unabashedly, he noticed with annoyance) to stare at him. "Good lord, do you eat anything other than chocolate?"

"Why can't I?" Mello bit back, countering the non-sequitur with another solid crunch of cacao.

"No reason." And then she sighed, smiled. Softened.

"You're just like him."

"Who?"

"Former boyfriend. He was kind of a dick, though."

Mello frowned, stared at Jean for a hard moment. Her smile never wavered, never shook.

Ah. That made sense, didn't it?

"You're Felice Dante." Felice Dante, L's link to Eraldo Coil and a crucial reason Coil had been defeated. Felice Dante, femme fatal fantastic and as much a legend at Wammy's as Beyond.

"Oh?" Jean asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Is that so? What gave it away?"

Mello shrugged. "Attitude, details. Little references. But it was mostly intuition."

Jean stared at him for a long, long time, and then she laughed.

"Damn," said Felice Dante, "you're pretty good at this thing, you know? You might be onto something, Alex, Thomas, whoever the hell you are. No wonder L's working with you."

Mello shrugged, the compliment somehow more painful than it should have been.

Felice smiled, slowly turned on foot, was silent for once as she glanced across the landscape of tile and brick.

"Notice the stance," she told him, without looking back at him. "Causal, relaxed. But if anyone tries anything," she said, suddenly turning around and grabbing Mello by the arm, "well," she shrugged, as Mello struggled to free himself from her grasp, "there'll be hell to pay," she said, then threw him to the ground.

"You didn't have to do that so fucking _hard,_" Mello finally managed, rubbing the bruises on his arm as he glared at Felice from the ground.

"Wash your mouth out," Felice said, offering him a hand which Mello refused. "And eat some real food once in a while, won't you? Jesus, you're thin."

Mello glared.

"Honestly, hon, if you can't be ready for a simple trick like that, how're you gonna be against Sully, hm? Got to be ready for anything."

"How, then? How do you do it?"

Felice shrugged, turned her back to him once more. Mello watched her more carefully this time, noted with wariness every shifting of her feet.

"There's no fancy tricks in it, nothing in the stance, no magic kung-fu secrets going on there. It's all in the mind. You've _got _to be ready, always ready, always on duty. None of that silly civilian unprepared-ness going on. It's about being a copper, hon."

She smiled, turning back; Mello flinched backwards, and Jean laughed.

"Like that, hon," she said to Mello's scowl, "just like that."

* * *

"First," Matt said, not looking up from his computer screens as Mello stomped into the room, "we need to hack into all the police and security systems - sit down, this is going to take a while -"

Mello blinked.

"You expect the two of us to single-handedly hack into every other computer in Oxford?"

"No," Matt replied, reaching over for his coffee as he typed furiously, "the Knights will help in that."

Mello blinked. Again.

"Matt, you seriously - not _those_-?"

"Yeah. Knights of Lambda Calculus. Me and some hackers at Oxford and MIT thought it'd be fun."

"Some hackers and _I," _Mello muttered under his breath as he sat down in front of the nearest computer.

If Matt heard Mello, he ignored him.

"We've got branches in Harvard, Caltech, Cambridge, Zurich - not as many as we'd want, but we're working on To-Oh and Hong Kong, and we've got more than enough staff to hack into a little town."

"So what you're telling me," Mello said, fingers already moving over keys in quick _clack-clack _succession, "that there's this de-fictionalized fictional organization for super-elite hackers, and you're got it at your beck and call?"

"Bored college students, most of them," Matt replied, still not looking up from his computer, "but yeah, basically. They do good time."

Mello darted a look at Matt. Same goggles, same messy mop of red hair - same Matt, same boy he had known at Wammy's. But at Wammy's, that always been always tempered by _third, _third-in-line only and with no ambitions beyond that.

And now? Now, here was Matt: same goggles, same hair, same Matt that was once third at the head of a worldwide organization.

And here was Mello.

"Oh," Mello managed to say, finally.

Mat shrugged and kept typing.

And then they were silent a while, the only sound that of keys in quick succession.

Silent, at least, until the door slammed open.

"Hey, kids," Felice said, leaning in with wide, wide grin, "look like you're pretty busy there. Neeeeed anything?"

Matt turned.

"We need photos, pictures - I don't care what, descriptions with which to identify Sully with. Can you do that?"

Felice blinked, then, slowly, grinned again.

"Sure thing," she said. "Laptop's in my flat - I'll be back soon as I can, k?"

"Good," Matt said, pausing from his rapid-fire directions to take another sip of coffee. "Thanks."

"No prob, hon. Always a pleasure. Anything else you need?"

"Two cappuccinos," Mello said, "with at least Godiva, none of that cheap shit they usually put in."

In response, Felice stuck out her tongue, in Mello's opinion a most un-Felice Dante-esque motion. Well. At least not the Felice Dante Mello had grown up with.

* * *

She relented, though, and there were two cappuccinos on the counter when she returned, laptop and sketches in tow.

The chocolate, however, was shit.

* * *

Four sub-standard cappuccinos and thirty hours later, they were in.

"Thank God," were the last words Matt muttered before his forehead slumped onto his desk.

Mello rolled his eyes, gently dragged his friend off his keyboard and onto his bed, and commenced giving orders to the Knights of Lambda Calculus.

Halfway through orders to MIT about the new program Matt's scribbled notes told him to install, Mello paused.

"Yes?"

In the doorway, Felice shrugged. "You've been up for a while," she said. "Need anything?"

Mello shook his head, returned to his typing.

On second thought -

"Another cappuccino," he said, then thought about it, and added, "and two shots of espresso."

He turned back to his keyboard.

"Hey, Alex?"

Annoyed, Mello spun around again.

"What?" he said, the menace behind the words slightly muted by lack of sleep and excess of coffee.

"You're getting better at this. The copper stuff, that is."

Mello opened his mouth, instinctive insults on the tip of his lips -

Then closed it, realizing that there was no need for one.

"Oh," he managed.

Felice smiled.

"Anytime, kid."

* * *

"So that's it, then?"

Mello nodded curtly, slowly took another scalding sip of caramel-coated coffee and made a face.

"No chocolate."

"Deal. Would of bought you a sandwich instead and some milk. You need real food, hon. You and that friend of yours."

Mello tried hard not to roll his eyes.

Evidently, he didn't try hard enough, because Felice stuck out her tongue in retaliation.

"Take a nap, Alex. You look like shit."

In response, Mello merely took another sip of his cappuccino.

"I'm staying awake until Matt wakes up. Someone has to watch to see if Sully approaches -"

"Hon, have you seen yourself? Honestly, you look pretty much horrible right about now. Sleep, kid. I'll monitor whatever it is you need watched."

Mello began to protest, then flinched backwards.

Not quickly enough, though.

"You're taking a nap," Felice repeated, hands like iron handcuffs around Mello's wrists as she dragged me to the beat-up couch in the corner, "and if you try any of that waking up business stuff with me, well, we'll see who's the jiu-jitsu black belt here and who isn't."

Still smiling, she threw Mello onto couch with only marginally less force than she had previously.

"Sleep," she ordered.

Mello considered not doing so, just to spite her, then his body took over and begged obedience -

Only to jolt awake as a most un-Felice Dante shriek rent open the room.

"Holy _shit," _Felice said, staring at Mello. "You hacked into _every police and security system in Oxford_?"

"We had help," Mello muttered, too startled to add venom into his words. "What?" he asked, when Felice continued staring.

"Nothing," she said, slowly regaining her poise and her grin, "nothing at all."

Mello tried for a glower, but it quickly faded as fatigue and sleep took over.

* * *

When he woke up, it was to the smell of pancakes and the sound of Hannah's voice.

"Don't know _what _you were thinking, Matt, you look like you haven't sleep _in ages, _and I swear, your profs are going to be ready with a _mountain _of homework when they see you - if they don't _kill _you first, that is - oh, hello, Thomas."

"Mmf," was Mello's eloquent response as he sat up, the plush sofa groaning beneath him as he did. In the clear morning air, he could see that Matt was already up and devouring pancakes at a rapid rate, stopping only to nod briefly and happily at Mello before continuing his carnage. Hannah was there, too, a frying pan in one hand, the heavenly aroma of chocolate chip pancakes emanating from it - the girl might have been annoying, but God knows she could cook.

Low blood sugar urging him on, Mello staggered towards the kitchen, where a ready chocolate bar was waiting on the counter. He picked it up without looking at the label, and, ripping open the foil, took a preliminary bite -

And promptly had to stop himself from gagging.

Milk? He didn't buy milk chocolate. Matt knew that. Hell, even Hannah knew that. So, then -

"Where's Fe - Jean?" he asked, catching himself at the last instant.

"Who?" Hannah asked, and then her eyes took on a wise, knowing quality. "Oo-h, you mean Jean, right? Well, 'Fe' said she was leaving - don't know why she wouldn't tell you, though. She just left, though, so I think you could catch her."

Hannah turned back to her pancakes, but now there was a small, knowing smile on her lips.

Mello could have smacked himself. While its true significance had been missed, apparently his earlier slip had given Hannah _more _reason to think Felice his girlfriend.

Goddamn.

* * *

"I don't eat milk chocolate."

"Is that so?" Felice asked.

"No."

"I'll keep that in mind," she replied. She still hadn't turned around.

They stood there, staring out into the rising sun.

Mello was the one to break the silence.

"So you're going back."

Felice nodded, turned slowly to face him. "Yeah. I think I've done all I could."

"Sully's coming here, though. Soon. You could -"

But already she was smiling, already she was shaking her head. Once, twice, three times, streaks of sunlight catching the silver in her ears.

"Daniel will be angry if I don't report back to him. Besides," she said, smiling softly at him, "blondes aren't my type."

"Is there something seriously fucking wrong with -"

"Ah, c'mon, you thought about it, didn't you?"

Mello glowered, and Felice laughed.

"It was fun working with you, kid," she said, grinning, hands in her pockets. "Have some more working with L. Hopefully it doesn't shorten your lifespan, though, because that would be a shame."

She raise one hand in farewell, then, turning, slowly walked to her car. Mello watched her, still scowling.

Presumptive bitch. Didn't she know blondes weren't his type, either?

* * *

Later that day, wandering through the streets (dangerous, Matt would have said, dangerous and stupid) and surveying the alerts from their system via one of the phones Matt had given him, Mello saw him.

Standing against the café wall, smiling vaguely at the world as he sipped his coffee. Causal, relaxed pose. No bulky coat, no sunglasses. But something - not in his stance, really, but something there, all the same.

Well. They wouldn't be totally alone, then.

Near's agents were here.

* * *

A/N: So, I know absolutely next to knowing about programming, but I was thinking that the system that Mello and Matt built to detect Sully could be kind of plausible if they used something similar to the Facebook face recognition program - that way, with a picture of Sully, they could find a bunch of people who looked like him. Then, with those alerts and with the Knights of Lambda Calculus watching the cameras (those must be some reeeaaaalllly bored college students) for suspicious activity, voila! Instant Sully detector.

Okay, I admit it's a pretty stupid idea. Actually, more like _a really stupid one. _Oh well. As Felice would have said, deal.

(But, really, any ways I could have done it better? I'm always willing to learn something new, you know.)

Also, this is not at all relevant, but I got into University of Chicago today! Going to college and learning about nuclear fusion, yay!


	34. XXXIV

It is early morning, and Mello is quietly sipping coffee when the beeping begins.

_A-13._

It's not the first time the Knights have raised the alarm, but when Mello zooms in on A-13, he knows it'll be the last.

- _he was tall, and kind of thin, and he wearing this black coat and his hair was kind of long, too - it was really dark, and I couldn't see very much, but it was kind of brownish, blackish, and he had all these scars on his face - _

Well.

So was the man on the screen.

Who, standing in front of the body, slowly took out a small piece of paper and let it flutter to the ground.

Mello hesitates, wonders a moment about danger and friendship and withholding information for the good of all before realizing that Matt was already up, the light of the computer screens flashing blue on his goggles and the determination in his eyes.

Mello's shift was over. Theirs was begun.

* * *

While Matt presses on Mello the bulletproof vests he had bought from musty stores in back alleys, Mello checks his Makarovs. They're loaded, of course - have been loaded for four nights of trading shifts and false alarms.

Only this wasn't a false alarm.

With the reprogrammed GPS in the car and two phones insistently beeping Sully's position, they head out.

"He's close," Mello mutters, when the dot that is Sanders Sully is scarcely two blocks away from their car. "We should get out."

Matt hesitates a moment, then nods, turning off the engine as Mello deactivates the tracking devices. With Sully so close, they only be another signal of their coming.

Speaking of which -

"What the hell are you doing?" Matt hisses, eyes outraged as Mello slips off his jacket and then his bulletproof vest.

"It'd be too bulky, too obvious," Mello replies, putting on his jacket again. "Yours you can hide under your clothes; mine, I can't."

"Mello, you _absolute idiot -"_

"Sh," Mello says, placing one finger on his lips as his eyes darted quickly around. "Sully's close. We can't attract attention."

Matt opens his mouth, as if about to protest, then closes it again.

The fire in his eyes remains, however.

They get out of the car. Matt lights a cigarette. They wait, then walk. Mello saunters, whistling slightly off-tune as he does. Matt doesn't. He glowers.

In any other circumstances, Matt's utter inability at acting causal would have been funny - if it weren't for, well, the fact that they were chasing a deranged serial killer.

As it was, it was now only slightly terrifying.

Mello tried to ignore it, though, tried to ignore Matt's anger even as it slowly coagulated into the same nervousness Mello was feeling underneath the surface.

Sully was close, very, very close.

But. Calm. Relaxed.

Mello could see, why, now, Sully had chosen A-13. It was deserted; no shops, no restaurants, no people. Only run-down houses and half-finished construction projects, already decrepit and swaying slightly in the morning air.

_But if there weren't any people, _Mello thought, suddenly, _then - it's possible -_

A trap?

Mello glanced quickly at Matt, who was lighting another cigarette with shaky fingers.

No, Mello decided, Matt didn't think so. Had not yet had the terrible thought that perhaps Zodiac had planned for one of _them _to be the next victim. Besides, it was a preposterous idea, one born of too much coffee and too little sleep.

But even if that were the case, Mello would make sure the cocky little bastard that was Zodiac would fail. He'd promised Di that, after all.

"Hey, Mels," Matt said quietly, carefully taking out his cigarette as they walked, "don't try to be too obvious, but I think our guy's on your right."

Mello nodded, then - slowly, ever so slowly - glanced to his right.

Only one glance. But it told him all he needed.

From Di's description and Felice's rare photos and sketches, he knew it was Sanders Sully.

Matt stopped, looked at Mello expectantly.

"Keep walking," Mello hissed under his breath, "and for God's sake, try to act a little more normal, will you?"

"Kind of hard to do under the circumstances, Mel," Matt whispered back, but he took another cigarette out and lit it, breathed in deeply.

Calm. Causal. Relaxed.

Walk on, walk on.

The man on the other side paused, stopped.

Okay. Okay. Calm. Relaxed. Causal, even as you reach in for your pocket, feel the trigger in your fingers -

Mello turned and shot.

And so did Sully.

Lights and sound broke through the morning air.

Two gunshots. That was all.

And then Sully crumbled, and Mello - sprawled across the pavement where he'd dived when he'd heard the gunshot, gravel scraping across his palms and face, looked down, and noticed the blood running down his leg.

"We're calling an ambulance," Matt said.

Mello shook his head, slowly - one hand holding onto the wall behind him - hobbled to his feet.

"Police first."

"Goddamn it, Mello, you're bleeding all over the pavement -"

"Police first," Mello repeated. "We need to get Sully in custody first."

Matt glared at him for one second, then took out two phones from his pocket. "You call the police - I'll call an ambulance."

Nodding, Mello made his way over to Matt and took one of the phones, one hand still holding onto the wall. Carefully taking it off, he began to dial -

Only, with both hands off the wall, to fall, catching himself only moments before falling onto his face.

"Ambulance first," Matt announced.

"Goddamn," Mello muttered, slowly staggering to his feet again, "I told you, Matt, I'm fine -"

"Mello, if you say something about it just being a flesh wound, I swear, I am going to smack you. Shit, the guy could have nicked an artery, you idiot - _sit down, _Mello, you're only going to make that leg bleed more if you keep on trying to stand on it, sit down. I'm calling an ambulance."

"Police first," Mello muttered weakly, sliding to sit down again.

But Matt was already dialing.

* * *

Fourteen hours later, Sanders Sully wakes in a hospital ward.

He opens his eyes. Looks right, left.

Sits up.

The monitor above his head begins its preliminary alarms. He unplugs it.

IVs swing, clang dully against metal as he stands up, and he unplugs them, too, and pulls the duct-taped needles from his veins.

And then he looks around.

Nothing. Nothing, except -

In one of the drawers, a pair of errant scissors, undoubtedly left by a scatter-brained nurse.

Experimentally, Sully opens them, closes them. Once, twice.

They were fairly dull, but Sully had always been known for his creativity.

An hour later, noticing that the monitor for room 112 was black, the prison nurse slowly sighs, and takes her pair of keys to the newest inmate's room.

Cautiously, she opens the door -

And screams.

* * *

In the morning, they will report the news: will condense it to bare facts, iron the truth into bare, bloodless, bland sentences.

Now, though, there is none of that mercy. Now, there is only the screaming nurse and Sanders Sully lying on the floor, left arm and right leg sawed off at the roots, a pair of red scissors and a single, white paper on the pristine floor.

* * *

_I had thought you intelligent, thought you talented. I've been disappointed. In all your searching, you have skipped around it, lost the trail as surely as you have lost me. Or rather, his tool. Complete loyalty I swear to him, and completely he has rewarded me. He will win. You cannot stop him._

_S. S._


	35. XXXV

So, it looks like I might not get to the Christmas scene before Christmas as I will be deprived of Wifi for the next week :( Ah, well, Merry Christmas anyways.

* * *

In writing _Inferno, _Mello decided, Dante had missed the tenth layer of hell: hospitals.

There was something about being totally helpless, in terrible pain, and chained up to a continent of cacophonic machines that did not sit well on psyche.

That, and the food would have sent Oliver Twist to the hills whimpering in fright.

Well, at least there was the morphine. It helped, a little, with the terrible pain bit, though the doctors had said it would take several more hours to fully kick in.

Which was a bitch, but which couldn't, Mello supposed, be helped.

Sinking back into his pillows and finding no one except Matt to glare at, Mello allowed himself a rare sigh.

"Feeling okay?" Matt asked, pausing his game and glancing at Mello with concerned eyes.

"Fine," Mello said, staring at the ceiling, not even deigning to meet the inquiry with a glare.

Matt didn't look convinced, but he went back to his game. Mello bit back the impulse to remark on how Matt would be the only person to bring a Nintendo DS to a vigilante mission, but really, the terrible pain bit made it hard to care about anything except sleep.

A few hours later, the pain in his leg slightly dulled, the nurses came in, and Mello was forced to choke down a few bites of a woefully chocolate-less meal before being left in blissful peace and a silence once broken by the beeping of the machines and Matt's game.

In the silence, Matt's phone rang.

Flipping it open, Matt scanned the screen briefly, grimaced, then shut the device and sighed.

"Hannah," he said to Mello's inquiring stare, smiling at Mello over his DS. "She's worried. Asking what I'm doing, why I wasn't at school, where I am."

"Did you tell her?"

"No."

"Thankfully." God knows what the girl would do if she knew that Mello had managed to land himself in the hospital.

(_Again_, his subconscious helpfully supplied. Mello made a note to put "subconscious" on the list of things he needed to shoot.)

Matt nodded, then returned to his DS. Tetris, by the sound of it.

"You know," Mello said, finally, when the silence had passed comfortable and entered awkward, "you could go get something to eat, if you wanted to -"

"What, and watch you burn down the whole place when I get back?"

Mello opened his mouth to retort, but Matt held a hand up.

"I'm not angry, Mels, 'kay? Before you say anything else. I think I've kind of gotten used to it, this whole leaving for two seconds and turning to find you unable to walk or some other shit. Should have expected it, I guess, rooming with you for twelve years and seeing what you still managed then. Besides," Matt added, turning to his Tetris again, "the food here is shit."

"You could at least get me a chocolate bar, then."

"I thought you didn't eat milk?"

"You have a _car, _asshole."

"Mmh. Gas is pretty expensive, Mels, and you know what Hannah would say about greenhouse gases."

Mello glares at that, and is more than just a little relieved when Matt laughs.

"Asshole."

"Can't be feed your sad habit now, can I, you hopeless addict?"

"Says pack-a-day boy."

"Hey, not smoking now, am I?"

"That's because the head nurse chewed you out for trying."

"She didn't have to go on for _an hour."_

Mello rolled his eyes, but decided not to comment.

"A magazine, then? A newspaper? Trashy romance novel? No offense meant, but you haven't been the most interesting company of late."

"Mostly because you've been sleeping the last eight hours, Mello. And probably need another eight more."

"Oh, God," Mello moaned, leaning back and covering his face with his eyes, "she's rubbing off on you, isn't she?"

"Go to sleep, Mello."

Mello glared at him.

But he did, nonetheless.

Matt leaves before Mello wakes - _while I was asleep, _most likely, and all the better for it. Mello couldn't remember the last time either one of them had had a decent meal.

Hospital food, Mello thought as he glared at his canned peaches and off-white milk, didn't count.

Hopefully Matt brought back some chocolate.

Glaring at his food and the world in general - but not with much venom, it had to be admitted - Mello flicked on the television.

He'd rarely allowed himself television at Wammy's - anything besides the news would have been a distraction, something that kept him behind - but Mello supposed that, all things considered, it was time for a bit of celebration. For now, at least.

Besides, there was always the matter of what had happened to Sully.

It would be front page news, after all.

And it was - only with something added to it.

Mello watched, and, slowly, his eyes narrowed.

Matt comes in with hamburgers and chocolate shakes -

And finds Mello, the absolute idiot, standing up, pacing, the monitor above his head a litany of crazy noise.

"Mels-!"

Mello whirled around.

"He's gone," he hissed, "he was fucking locked up and strapped in and now he's _gone, _Matt - they let him fucking kill himself -"

"Who?" Matt asked, blinking away confusion before comprehension dawned. "Oh - you mean Sully, don't you?"

"They let him get away!" Mello exploded, turning and slamming his fist into the wall. "They - let - him - _get away!"_

"Listen, Mels, it's going to be okay - Sully's not going to kill anymore people -"

"That's not the point!" Mello screamed. "Sully was never more than a tool - I couldn't give a rat's ass about his death _if it weren't for the fucking fact that they let Zodiac get away_!"

"Mello -"

The door slammed opened.

"What," the nurse in the doorway asked, eyes raking over Mello's murderous expression and the monitors and the slightly guilty look on Matt's face, "is going on?"

"Nothing," Matt says, smiling at her. "My friend just got a little worked up. That's all."

The nurse raised her eyebrows, glanced slowly at the dent Mello had made in the plaster wall and the blood slowly dripped off his fist.

"I see," she said delicately.

"He's right," Mello said stiffly, sitting down again. "I just lost my temper. For a moment."

"Ah." The nurse was silent for a while, eyes glancing from Mello to Matt, but - meeting nothing but sullenness and desperate cheerfulness - decided to say nothing.

Sighing, she crossed the room and expertly took a small bottle of alcohol and a roll of tape from her pocket. Mello flinched slightly as she dabbed the alcohol on, but was silent as she wrapped his hand in gauzy tape.

"There," the nurse said, expertly twisting the tape a little, "that's that. Now," she said, staring straight at Mello, "there will be no more of this moving about and losing temper nonsense, now, will there?"

Mello was silent, so Matt answered for him.

"No," he said, shooting what he hoped was a warning glare at his friend, "no, there won't."

"We're leaving," Mello announced when the nurse had left.

"Oh, really?" Matt asked, not looking up from his DS. "When you can barely walk?"

"I _can _walk," Mello said, and - slowly, slightly unsteadily - stood up again.

Matt was not impressed.

He wasn't even surprised, not really, when Mello began to pull the IVs from his arm and unplugging the monitor from its cables.

"Pulling a Sully on us now, are we?"

"I'm going to sign out, asshole."

"And how're you going to get back to my flat, hm? Walking?"

"You're driving me back."

And that, Matt decided, was the last straw.

"Mello," Matt began, lowering his DS and beginning on what he hoped to be a major slapping-some-goddamn-sense-into-you lecture -

But Mello, of course, cut him off.

"The police will be investigating soon," he said curtly. "They'll know about the ambulance, and they'll want to know about whoever it was that shot Sully. There'll be questions and testimonies and a fuckload of publicity we don't want."

"And?"

"And," Mello explained, slowly beginning to pace the room again, "they'll find out. About the Knights. About our hacking into every security system in Oxford. And," he said, briefly flashing Matt a cold, humorless smile, "even if he would deign to help, I doubt the new L will be much help, then."

The stark truth of that statementcertainly cut off Matt's coming harangue.

"Besides," Mello added, almost as an afterthought, "Sully didn't hit anything important - just muscle. Come to think of it, it _actually was _just a flesh wound."

"Mello -"

"Shit, Matt," Mello said, glaring at his best friend, "I can _walk. _We're _leaving."_

"Mello, don't be -"

"Can and will be. Now shut up and find your car, or I _am_ walking back to your flat."


	36. XXXVI

The thing about being in terrible pain, Mello decided, was that it made it rather hard to think.

The bootleg morphine _did _help, though. As did the chocolate.

Hannah didn't.

"_Sit _back down - I swear, walking out of a hospital when you've been _shot, _and now this - honestly, do you have _no _common sense -"

Mello would have dearly tempted to give her the finger, had Matt not been there and glaring daggers at him as well. As it was, he fell onto the sofa with not even the semblance of good grace, and glowered at the world.

"And _don't _give me that, either - you're lucky to be alive, and you're pretty darn lucky to have Matt and me here to help, otherwise _who knows _what would have happened to you - there's no need to be so petulant about having your life saved. And, for goodness's sake, eat something other than chocolate in a while, won't you? Soup is perfectly reasonable food."

Mello ignored Hannah and her soup, and leaned over Matt's laptop. There were far more important things to do, after all.

It'd been two days since Sully's suicide - two days, and there had been no new news, no new murders or clues, and Mello was growing already restless. The last clues of the last murder had been painfully obvious, and that was wrong wrong wrong. He had to be missing something. He had to be -

"Mels, I swear, if you don't relax for once, I'm going to -"

"What?"

Matt smiled.

"Not buy you anymore chocolate, that's what."

Mello glared at him.

"Chocolate is bad for your health, anyway," Hannah added, primly sitting down in the kitchen.

Mello felt the very distinct urge to strangle both of them at that moment, terrible pain notwithstanding.

There was work to be done, after all. There always was.

* * *

It turns cold that night, cold and stormy, the chill seeping through the cracks of the old apartment as thunder rumbles through the night.

In the morning, Matt looks outside and shivers.

"It's going to snow," he says.

Mello nods, then goes back to Zodiac.

No news, of course. Again.

But. The note.

It was in the note, wasn't it? There'd been precious little else in the form of clues - the mutilation of the body had, of course, obviously been an allusion to Backyard Bottomslash, B's last victim. But while the severed limbs of Bottomslash had pointed to the location of the next murder, there was nothing in the room, nothing there to point to the next murderer or murder location. And it had been the same with the other suicides, too - nothing had been explicitly told in the suicides, nothing clearly communicated. No, instead, the suicides seemed to serve some other purpose - symbolic, perhaps =

So it had to be the note, then, something in it. Something in the note - but reluctant as he was to put the notes through Matt's programs, he had to admit that it might have been easier, it was less reliable - more apt to find meaningless words in alphabet soup than something of actual value.

Snapping off another piece of chocolate, Mello tried again.

He'd been at it for hours, trying again and again to find pattern from the letters. The best he'd been able to get - by taking the first letter from the first sentence of the and the second letter from the second sentence of the first note, then adding to it the third letter from the third sentence and the fourth letter from the second sentence, and so on - had been the word "church."

But "church" was such a vague word; no definite statement, no sense of the absolute about the meaning of it. It could signify anything; it, for all the word, could be useless data. It probably was. Perhaps it made some sense with the next note, but when would that be?

Too late, that was all Mello knew.

So he kept at it. Kept at the notes and kept at his investigations.

* * *

Matt is right - it snows that week, fat, lazy flakes that caterwaul across the sky and bathe the city in a thin sheen of white.

Mello doesn't notice, though. He is working.

At least, not until Matt comes in, bringing in with him even more of the cold and what seems to be a miniature flurry.

"Goddamn it, Matt - it's _cold_!"

"Says the one who didn't trek through snow and ice to hear get to downtown," Matt says, calmly placing the package in his arms on the kitchen counter and unwrapping his snow-covered scarf from around his face.

"What were you doing downtown?"

Matt looks at him then, and there is surprise, genuine surprise in his face then.

"Don't you know what day it is? Mels, it's the thirteenth - the thirteenth of December."

"Oh." And Mello was quiet for a moment, silently contemplating the fact that he had needed Matt to remind him of his own birthday.

"I was downtown to buy you cake," Matt said in the silence, placing his scarf near a heating vent to dry. "It's chocolate - I specified they use Godiva, so don't worry, it's palatable."

He smiled.

For a long time, Mello didn't answer.

And then, slowly, unsurely:

"Thanks."

"No problem."

There was cake and wine in the bag - good cake, expensive cake that stands in stark contrast to the shabby state of their surroundings - and they ate it in lieu of dinner, thick slices with rich, chocolate icing, washed down with cool champagne.

And then, afterwards, of course, it was back to their own separate worlds - Mello to his computer and Matt to his desk, a pile of unfinished homework so tall it made Mello wince in front of him: the result of Matt's recent and many absences.

Mello, of course, had Zodiac.

And for a while, there was silence.

Then, tentatively, quietly:

"Hey, Mels -"

Mello turned.

Matt smiled.

"Happy birthday."

* * *

Mello's birthday was a while okay, but I had to add it anyways :)


	37. XXXVII

"_Goddamn it."_

The words were quiet, but from her seat in the kitchen, Hannah heard and winced. Thankfully, though, she also kept silent, only continued peeling potatoes with the faintest trace of chagrin.

Slamming the laptop's monitor down, Mello glared and bit off another piece of chocolate. Stopped, chewed for a few moments, then slowly turned the computer back on again.

Nothing. Nothing about Caroline, nothing about Ánle - nothing about where they'd went or how they'd survived, only a few, brief medical records, a few notes, and then a vast blank field of information.

Not that Mello had expected anything else. Ánle was only middle-ranked, after all - no need to rely on him, no need to meticulously track _him. _And so it made sense, then, that dearth of information, the wide, blank chasm between childhood and criminality.

But Caroline -

Third-in-line, even in the preliminary days of Wammy's, was still respectable.

There were more notes on her. Somewhere. Somehow. Mello just had to find them.

And then, of course, there was the problem of Zeno.

Zeno Barnes, who didn't fit the alliterative pattern at all - but who might, with luck, provide clues, tangible evidence of B's past and path.

Zeno Barnes, who - like Ánle - had seemingly vanished off the face of the Earth after his childhood. But who also, unlike Ánle, had simply refused to show up again.

St. Christina's had few notes on Zeno - no discharge papers, no release or re-movement papers - and nothing at all past August 19, 1997, the day B left St. Christina's and entered Wammy's House.

_Goddamn _it. There were so many things to be investigated -

"You know," Hannah said, putting the last finishing touches on her casserole, "you might want to try relaxing, once in a while."

Mello ignored her.

"And then there's the whole psychology of the Zodiac murders, too," Mello said, waving his chocolate bar as he spoke, "the fact that the murderers' suicides mirror the manner that B's victims died in - that implies sympathy with the murderer, with B. The reversal of the roles - it symbolizes a reversal of victim-perpetrator blame. By dying like the victim, the murderers show that Zodiac - whoever he is - believes B to be a victim, too, innocent, if you want it to be, and his victims to be the guilty parties. Whoever this Zodiac is, then, he or she sympathizes strongly with B."

"Mm-huh."

"But," Mello finished, slumping into his chair again and viciously biting into his chocolate, "we already know all that. We've known from the start that whoever it is probably is obsessed with B."

"Well, yeah," Matt said, tapping his cigarette against the side of the worn kitchen table, "it's pretty obvious, isn't it?"

"Fuck it, Matt, we're not getting anywhere. We've worked for hours, we've hacked into fucking Wammy's, for God's sake, and we're nowhere, nowhere at all - there's not enough information to pinpoint Zodiac or the next murderer he's going to choose, nothing, nothing concrete, nothing solid at _goddamn all -"_

"Mello! Calm down, okay?"

"Matt, how the hell am I supposed to -"

"Mels. It'll be okay. We'll catch Zodiac. We will. I'll look in Wammy's; we'll see if there's anything we missed. We'll track down C, we'll track down Ánle - we'll catch Zodiac. It'll take time, but we will. I swear."

Matt took a deep breath, then, and smiled.

"But c'mon, Mels. It's almost Christmas. Take a break for once."

Mello hesitated, the slow sense of guilt trickling into his stomach reminder of the fact that he still had to get Matt a Christmas present.

Well. Alright. Maybe.

If it was almost Christmas, after all.


	38. XXXVIII

The day before Christmas Eve, the last of the snow melts, leaves Oxford bare steel and crumbling façade.

"Looks like we might not have a white Christmas this year," Matt says, leaning on the balcony of his flat, a cigarette dangling but unlit in one hand.

"Oh, don't say that," Hannah says, looking up from where she sat, carefully putting the last touches on the Christmas cake. "It could snow tonight or tomorrow, you know."

Mello rolls his eyes, but doesn't comment.

* * *

They buy a tree, that night. It is a small, tiny, potted thing - the only one that could feasibly fit into both their budget and Matt's apartment. Mello gives it two weeks, at the most, to live, but Hannah is convinced that she can revive its drooping leaves, nurture its spindly branches into straightness.

Again, Mello doesn't comment, but when they buy the tree, there is a small, secret part of him that hopes that Hannah will be right.

While Hannah and Matt kisses under the mistletoe of storefront, Mello slips off and buys Matt's present.

* * *

Christmas Eve, and the sun shines cheerfully and relentlessly bright.

Walking outside, Matt gazes at the sky, shakes his head slowly, once, twice.

"It could snow," Hannah insists. "You never know."

"Of course it might," Matt agrees, coming in and kissing her. Mello averts his eyes.

"Oh, come, Thomas - it'll be fun!"

"Yeah," Matt adds quietly, "just try it, for once."

Mello hesitates, and then joins.

It's been so long since he'd decorated a Christmas tree, after all - as far as he could remember, he had spent the last few Christmas Eves studying. Christmas Day had been different, of course, but that was because there would always be, under the giant pine tree Roger had specially cut each year before being left to the mercy of several dozen child geniuses, that small package signed with not 'Santa Claus' but instead a single, gothic letter. L's presents had always been precious to him, and especially so after Near had arrived; they had showed that, to L, he was still there, still important and present in spite of being only second.

This Christmas tree, though, was nothing like the Christmas trees at Wammy's. It is so small, so delicate that Mello must be careful not to break its thin branches as he hangs ornaments onto tiny pine needles. And as he carefully helps Matt wrap tinsel around its fragile branches, Mello feels a sharp, fierce stab of determination: he wants, in that moment, more than anything for Hannah to succeed in her quixotic quest to save the tiny tree. The odds were a hundred to one that she would, but that was alright.

Mello, after all, had faced such chances all his life.

* * *

Hannah is at the kitchen counter, rolling gingerbread dough while Matt catches up on last minute present buying, when Mello slowly walks over, chocolate between teeth as he stares critically at the little men she had cut out of dough.

"They're asymmetrical," he says, chewing.

"Hm?" Hannah asks, looking up, a stray lock of honey-colored hair falling across her face as she does. And then she smiles, nods slightly as she pushes her hair back into place.

"Yeah," she said, "I forgot to buy cookie cutters for Christmas, and my mum has all my baking supplies, so I kind of had to ad-lib it a bit - used a knife to cut them out. They're not very pretty, but I don't think Matt'll mind as long as they're tasty."

Mello was silent for a while, watching Hannah reduce the sticky-sweet dough to two-dimensional rectangles. But when she reaches for the knife, Mello grabs her wrist.

Hannah looked up, startled.

For a moment, Mello looked just as startled at what he just did, but he quickly turned it into an expression of indifference as he let go of Hannah's wrist.

"You decorate," he said brusquely, reaching for the small knife Hannah had been using to cut the lopsided gingerbread men out with. "I'll cut them out."

If he was speaking in purely Platonic terms, Mello supposed it would have been a lie to deem his gingerbread men 'perfectly symmetrical,' as that term was an abstraction fit only for an abstract world and not the imperfect human one in which he existed.

But as it was, they were a damn sight better than Hannah's.

"Oh, wow," Hannah said, staring as Mello cut near-perfect gingerbread man after near-perfect gingerbread man, "you're quite good."

"What were you expecting?"

Hannah blushed at that. "Nothing, it's just that - well - you didn't seem like the artistic type, but I guess, well, first impressions and all that -"

"I'm not." Mello had never had time for art, just as he'd never had time for television or cartoons or games except those that would help him exceed Near.

"I didn't mean - I mean, I'm sorry if -"

"Don't be," Mello said, handing her another gingerbread man to decorate. And Hannah saw his eyes, and she relaxed.

Mello had never had time for gingerbread men, not when it had been Near and L and himself. He still didn't, not really, should be searching for Anle, Caroline, Zeno, Zodiac -

But now it was Christmas.

* * *

And then Matt is back and it is evening and the food is ready and suddenly they are sitting down, Hannah humming slightly to herself as she cuts the faux turkey which Mello refuses to eat but which she serves him anyway. As if it were a normal Christmas dinner, two orphan boys raised to emulate a letter on a screen and the vegan idealist the perfect encapsulation of the happy family.

And Mello cannot find it in himself to mock it, cannot force himself to be bitter and sarcastic and himself today because well, they looked so _happy._

So they eat. Inside, hastily-strung Christmas lights twinkle and the little tree stands serenely in one corner, jewel bright in the fluorescent lights. Hannah talks, rapidly, quickly, and Matt laughs, leans over and kisses her easily; Hannah blushes, and attempts to cover it up by talking even more rapidly.

Half-way through a sentence, though, Hannah stops, noticing something, and points to the window with her fork, a small smile on her face.

"Look," she says. "It's snowing."

* * *

"We should go caroling," Hannah declares, after dinner. "It's snowing, and it'll be nice."

Mello glances at her, and sees that she is already putting on her coat.

"Yeah," and Mello is infuriated to see that it is Matt, the traitor, who is saying this, "we should. Get out, see the sun - that sort of stuff." The last sentence, of course, a jab at Mello.

Mello is silent for a moment, and it is the silence of a thousand small crackles of lightening.

"Hell no."

"Oh, come _on," _Hannah says, crossing her arms and giving him what she probably thought was an endearing, pathos-filled look but which was rather ruined by her show of uncontrolled glee, "it'll be _fun_."

"I rescind the previous statement. _Fuck _no."

Matt sighed.

"Ah, c'mon Mels - it's Christmas Eve, after all. You don't stay home and work on Christmas Eve."

"I _don't _carol either."

"And good thing, too," Matt said, "otherwise half of Oxford would have their ears bleeding from your swearing. But c'mon," he added, relaxing again, "just this once. You're not going to miss anything in the two hours we're away, and there might be hot cocoa, besides."

* * *

Grumbling, cursing, and kicking up whatever incipient layer of snow happened to come across his path, Mello followed as Matt and Hannah went from house to house, warbling off-key renditions of "Jingle Bells" and "Good King Wenceslas" to overtly smiley inhabitants of Oxford.

There was also a lamentable lack of hot chocolate. Lamentable, but expected.

Mello didn't know how they'd managed to drag him into this mess.

For the most part, though, he hung behind - far, far, behind, preferably at least fifty feet behind, though he often had to compromise for twenty-five.

It was cold as hell and there was no hot chocolate and Mello's best friend and his girlfriend were making fools of themselves.

At last, however, they (_thank God)_ came to the last house on their route. Several feet from the door, Mello began his customary turning-around-and-walking-away routine-

Only for Hannah to grab hold of his arm, and with a plea of "_it'll be fuuuuun" _rang the doorbell.

The door opened.

"Why, hello!" a large, slightly rotund woman said, beaming at the two cheerful kidnappers and one very startled (and slowly becoming more pissed by the second) kidnappee. "Are you carolers, then?"

"Yes," Hannah says, beaming, "and we'd like to sing you a few songs." Her grip is iron on Mello's arm.

"Why, how lovely!" the woman says with a smile to match Hannah's. "I haven't had carolers in, oh, so many years - it's just a pity, these days, all these electronic Christmas trees and prepackaged foods - we used to make our own plum pudding, did you do? Homemade recipes, passed down from generation to generation. But, of, I'm babbling, aren't I? You're here to carol. Well, then, carol!"

"Of course," Hannah says, and starts:

_"Silent ni-ight, ho-oly night -"_

And to his horror, Mello sees that the woman is looking at him, beaming at him, expecting him to _join in _of all things -

Hannah's sharp jab in the ribs clearly says that she, too, expects Mello to join in as well.

It hurt, too.

No. No no no no no. Mello did not carol, he did not sing, he did not walk around batty neighborhoods visiting overenthusiastic strangers -

But the woman's eyes are so bright, so expectant behind her horn-rimmed glasses that Mello, in spite of himself, begins to sing as well.

He never could sing, and he's not surprised to find out that he still can't. But, somehow, though, Mello finds that he can't stop. There was something about a lonely old woman with a bright smile that compelled him to keep singing.

They ran through the whole Parthenon of Christmas songs: "Jingle Bells," "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" (and Mello is certain that his face is as red as Rudolph's nose during that one) and finish with "O Little Town of Bethlehem." Above, the snow falls, and glistens in the streetlamp light.

The woman stands in the doorway, and the intensity of her smile could have lit up a million streets.

"Marvelous, marvelous!" she says, clapping, her glasses slipping slightly off in her glee. "Oh, how wonderful, how wonderful!"

* * *

All through the walk back to the flat, Mello is quiet. Matt and Hannah walk ahead, talking softly, laughing, sometimes exchanging small, tender kisses.

The snow falls softly, muffling the city in silence and white.

The walk back is long - long and cold, and when Matt unlocks the door, Hannah hurries in, shivering exaggeratedly despite her coat and scarf. She is smiling, though, smiling despite her shivers and cheeks red from cold.

And then, suddenly, she starts, stands up with astonishment in her eyes.

"Matt," she says, "I forgot the presents!"

"Hannah, really, it'll be fine - we can do it tomorrow -"

"No!" she said, her blue eyes wide. "Midnight, Matt - remember, every midnight? My present to you, and your present to him. It's a tradition."

"Well, Hannah, there's no rush -"

"Procrastinator," Hannah accused, pointing one finger at him. "You haven't gotten it yet, have you?"

"No," Matt sighed, "I did, only - well - I left it in Demi's car, so -"

"You left _my _present with Demi?" she asked, faux shocked.

"Well, I was - well, we were - when I saw it - look, I'll go get it, alright?"

"And quickly!" Hannah shouts.

When Matt left, though, she dissolved into giggles.

"Matt always does that," she said, smiling up at Mello when her laughing had subsided. "I kind of expect it by now."

She stood up then, and walked over to the closet.

"I always keep my presents in here," she explaining, rummaging through the many articles crammed into the tiny space. "It's more convenient and way better than driving over to my flat. I don't think Matt suspects - he never uses this closet, and it's such a mess besides you'd be hard pressed to find a herd of stampeding elephants, much less a present or two - there!" she cried, triumphantly coming up with two neatly wrapped packages. "There they are."

Mello watched all this, listened to all Hannah's words with an air of slight boredom. As far as he could tell, she was babbling: just like any other girl, too high on life and love to notice the secrets she was spilling.

So it surprised him, more than anything else than night, when she came up to him and put one of Matt's presents in his hands.

"For you," she said, smiling. They're from Valrhona. I heard you complaining about how little decent chocolate the stores had, and well, I'd heard Valrhona treated their farmers well."

"Oh," said Mello. He hadn't gotten her a present. He hadn't thought she would get him one.

And yet here she was, smiling as she held out the box of chocolates to him. Looking, for all the world, as though they were friends.

And that was wrong, wrong, wrong.

He wasn't supposed to be likeable. He was Mihael Keehl, the dangerous child, the wild one, the dark angel with wings stained by a thousand sins. He was admired, despised, mocked, hated, but most of all, he was cowered to. He was feared. He was Mello.

And yet here she was, the innocent-eyed girl he had insulted and harangued and verbally beat about like an errant tennis ball. Offering him chocolates that Mello, for all his Wammy-bred paranoia, could not bring himself to think were poisoned.

"Oh," Mello said again. "Um…well…thank you."

Hannah smiled.

"You're welcome."

* * *

Late that night, Mello borrows Matt's car, drives past Debenhams and Fraser, hesitates, stops at a frosty store front.

He walks inside.

Hannah's door is pitifully easy to pick, and when the door opens, she does not stir. She is asleep, all tangled limbs and soft nightgown spread out on a couch of stuffed animals and plush dolls. She murmurs softly in her sleep, and Mello is careful to soften his steps when he leaves.

In the morning, fuzzy-brained and wild-haired, Hannah wakes and is puzzled to find, on her kitchen table, a large chocolate cake.

* * *

And that's the first two chapters of 2012! Sap all the way - although don't get used to it, because things should be going downhill pretty soon. Muhahaha.

Anyways, belated happy new year!


	39. XXXIX

Happy Chinese New Year's, everyone! I don't have any red envelopes, so here's a chapter instead!

* * *

"Mello," Matt sighed, "only you would think of working on New Year's Eve."

"Matt," Mello countered, "only you would think of seeing fireworks when there's a serial killer to be caught."

"Yeah, but it's hardly like Zodiac's going to offer himself up to the cops once you leave your laptop. I mean, c'mon, Mels, it's not exactly like Zodiac's waiting for the moment you step out of the door to strike."

"You never know. New Year, symbolism, all that shit."

"Mello," Matt said, flopping down on the couch next to him with an exaggerated sigh, "I give up. What's it going to take, huh? Godiva? Lindt? Cocaine?"

"What makes you think I do cocaine?"

"I don't. But chocolate might as well be, for you. But c'mon, Mels, we're all waiting on you. They want to leave, already, but Hannah's making them wait on you."

"Matt. You're seriously trying to guilt trip me by mentioning _Hannah?"_

"Hey, you did buy her that giant chocolate cake for Christmas."

Mello was silent at that.

"Oh. Right. I remember. The chocolate cake that does not exist. The chocolate cake that is a lie, because obviously we can't have people thinking you actually have the potential to be something other than a self-centered bastard once in a while."

Mello kept silent and continued typing.

"C'mon," Matt said, smiling, "it's the holidays. We'll get work done afterwards, okay?"

"Matt," Mello said, slowly closing the lid of the laptop, "if you don't shut up and hurry up, we're going to make everyone miss the damn fireworks. And then when Zodiac comes and blows up half of Oxford, we'll be still stuck in your shitty flat burning to death and watching pyrotechnics instead of being outside in a shitty park freezing to death and watching pyrotechnics."

"Knew you'd cave," Matt says, grinning widely as he followed Mello out the door.

They are there, a gaggle of Matt's friends and Hannah waiting impatiently outside in the snow. A few smoke, tiny fires held between gloved fingers; a few tap their feet, glance every other moment at Matt's apartment door. Light conversation falls on them all, as gentle as the snowflakes that drift through the air.

It is a perfect scene: Norman Rockefeller soft, aude lang syne golden like the streetlamp halos above their heads.

Mello slams the door, and every face turns. Some continue staring, long after Matt locks the door and introduces Mello, who responses to the formality with a curt nod.

It must have been the leather. Though Mello doesn't know why they object - it was hardly as though Matt's friends dressed in any less eclectic clothing than Mello and Matt did.

Frankly, though, Mello didn't give a damn. After impersonating several police officers, hacking into half of Oxford's security systems, meeting and getting his ass kicked by a childhood legend, and getting shot by a notorious crime lord, there was something about awkward social greeting that lost its edge.

Besides, Mello was just here to see some damn fireworks.

Hannah is the only who smiles when she sees him. Mello nods at her, and she beams at it.

"Ready?" she asks, smiling. "Then let's go."

* * *

Mello walks alone.

He doesn't mean to, doesn't do it intentionally, but it ends up that way, eventually. It is better, though - better that he stay away, better that there be no incipient questions. He was a stranger, and it was better if the polite but awkward attempts at conversation were never begun.

Matt walks with him, for a while. Tries to make him join them, assimilate, talk. But when

"So where'd you know Matt from? I've always wondered - guy never talks much about where he grew up or anything. He's kind of like our resident enigma. Smoke?" he asked, proffering a cigarette, which he lit for Mello.

"Childhood friends," Mello said, taking the cigarette and regretting it almost the moment he did. Already, the faint smoke was turning acrid and dark, twisting through the air like sinuous spirits. Mello couldn't imagine putting the thing in his mouth, but - seeing John causally light a cigarette for himself - does.

He almost chokes on the first breath, but forces himself not to.

John notices, nonetheless.

"First time, huh?" he asks, eyes laughing. Mello glances at them, warily, but there is no malice there, and so he relaxes, ever so slowly, and nods.

"Good," John says, "it kills your lungs and it's damn expensive, besides. Not that I could quit, anyway," he says, tapping ash onto the sidewalk. His smile as he says it is sincere, somehow - nothing to be analyzed, nothing beneath the surface - and Mello, to his surprise, finds himself responding.

"I don't think I'll be taking up smoking anytime soon." It is an admittance of weakness, yet somehow it doesn't feel like that, only like something perfectly natural, a perfectly normal exchange between friends, even though Mello had only known John for several minutes.

Playing normal. No suspicion, no subterfuge in every exchange. Normal, friendly conversation -

No, most definitely not Mello words.

At the moment, though, he thought he liked them -

Oh, God, Hannah was rubbing off on him.

John laughs, and it is a clear, guileless sound. "Good," he declares, smiling at Mello, "I've already doomed Matt with it, wouldn't want to give lung cancer to anyone else. You can be a good influence on him."

And then Mello was laughing, too, the thought of his being a good influence on anyone too horrifying to be possible.

"No," he says, finally, when he stops, "it's the other way around. Matt's the good kid - I'm not." Mello smiles, and there are teeth in it when he does.

"Oh?" John asks, smiling back but much more benignly. "That sounds like a couple of good stories - and, hey, you never _did _get around to telling me much about Matt and you. When'd you guys meet?"

"We met when we were twelve," Mello answers, involuntarily tensing at the question. _Personal questions - personal information - _dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, a thousand Wammy-bred instincts said. "Middle school." It was the lie they had agreed on from the beginning, the same one Mello had told the nurse at St. Mary's so many months ago.

"Mm." It is a response, an invitation: tell more, it says, and suddenly the old paranoia is back, sharp and barbed.

(And perhaps, too, the old memories - and those suddenly hurt so much now, now that L is gone and Near -)

"Isn't the point of this the new year?" Mello asked, and his voice is sharper than he had intended. "The future, the things ahead - not the past?"

"Mmf," John said, taking out his cigarette and exhaling as he gazes above, at the points where the stars are emerging in the clearing sky. "I know it's the new year and new horizons and looking forward to the future and all that good stuff that's supposed to be the dog's bollocks - leastwise that's what Hallmark and Hollywood'd have you believe - but sometimes it's nice, you know. To remember, too."

John smiled, and they walked.

"Yeah," Mello said finally, quietly. "It is."

* * *

They reach the park. It is deserted, and the trees are dying. But it here, Hannah says, that there is the best view of the fireworks.

They wait. John offers Mello another cigarette, which Mello's pride forces him to take. It is almost as bad as the first one, but it is relaxing, somehow, though nothing in comparison to a good bar of chocolate.

They talk, a little bit. Mello catches himself joining in, occasionally, quietly, and notes that no one seems to think anything of it, not anymore.

Then - in a deserted, dusty park in the dead of winter - they watch the fireworks, and are astonished to realize that Hannah is right.

Somewhere far away, a bell rings - deep, sonorous. Once, twice, several times in slow and steady succession.

It is the new year.

* * *

It is a long walk back, and when Matt and Mello arrive at the apartment, there is no talk of Zodiac or work, only yawned "good nights" as the stars twinkled and the lights flickered off.

The next morning, when Mello wakes, he starts to turn on his computer - then hesitates, stops. And, on a whim, on an urge, puts on his coat and walks outside.

It was the new year, after all.

In the early morning air, Oxford is a sleepy town: quiet, the students all gone off home or on vacation, as Hannah had said she would that morning, to Winchester. Winchester. It brought up memories, so many memories. Some were good. Others less so.

Mello was silent as he remembered, and the city was silent with him.

Until an underdressed college student, riding breathlessly on an old red bicycle past Mello, broke the serenity of the early morning air by falling across the cobblestones, piles of carefully folded student newspapers spilling across the streets as he did.

As the passersby - and Mello was surprised to find himself one of them - helped the boy to his feet and placed the newspapers back in his bicycle basket, Mello saw himself, as if in a dream, slowly pick up one of the newspapers, glance at the headline and stop.

Time stopped as Mello read.

In bold font, the cover of the Oxford Crier proclaimed:

_Zodiac Killer Strikes Again! Could Oldbury Murders be the Work of Mysterious Killer?_


	40. XL

Sorry for the long wait! I've been super-busy lately, and haven't had much time to write, unfortunately.

This chapter's for Wolf-girl-Artemis, for being awesome and reminding me to not forget you guys.

* * *

"In plain sight! He left the bodies in plain fucking _sight! _The audacity of the bastard -"

"Mello -"

"While we were there!" Mello said, turning around in a whirl of blonde hair and angry eyes. "Watching fucking _fireworks _as people got shot!"

"And what would have happened if we'd stayed home, huh? Stalked news reports telling us about deaths we'd then retroactively prevent?"

"That's not the goddamn _point!" _Mello shouted as he glared at Matt. "The point, Matt - the fucking _point _is that we were out there, watching your shitty fireworks when we could have been _working! _We've lost almost a day, Matt! Almost a whole entire damn day to -"

"To what?" Matt asked, and this time there was a hint of acid in his voice as he reached for another cigarette. "To sit at your damn computer screen working yourself half to death? To book a plane for Oldbury and get yourself shot again? Or maybe to berate me for being a shitty friend for, oh, you know, looking out for your well-being?"

"Matt, that's not the damn point!" Mello said, stopping his pacing to shoot his friend another glare. "The point is -"

"What?" Matt asked, his eyes as dangerous as the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. "To beat _Near, _is it?"

Mello said nothing.

Matt's eyes softened.

"Mels," he said, putting down a cigarette and running a hand through his hair, "Mels, look. You work your ass off every day, you don't seem to even have time for proper meals anyway - what the hell, Mels, the point is you look awful. You need to a rest, need to get a decent night's sleep once in a while -

"No," Mello said, turning curtly away. "I need to work."

* * *

And so he did.

It was tedious, slow work, and he was sure Matt would have known some shortcut or another to shorten the work, but that would have involved talking to him and Mello was far too angry to.

Because, really, fuck Matt. He didn't need his help and if the little dirtbag was going to sit there, telling him what he should or shouldn't be doing, it should be Matt who should be asking Mello for forgiveness. Not the other way around, as Matt seemed to think (sitting there, just sitting there, playing his stupid Tetris as Mello tried every trick he could to get into Wammy's system and Caster's files -)

Because it was important. It was important. It was about _more _than Near, damn it. It was.

(It was.)

Mello sneered at the computer, typed in another command.

Fuck Near. Fuck Zodiac. Fuck them all.

Matt is out of the house when Mello stumbles out to make coffee, squints against the over-bright light that announced morning. Another morning. Another day.

Mello shook his head as he shook coffee into the maker. Another day, and he was scarcely any farther than when he had first begun.

Disgusting. He would never beat Near, at this rate.

* * *

When the coffee is done, Mello pours himself a cup, mixes it with some of the old hot cocoa Hannah had bought one day, sips the bitterly sweet concoction, and goes back to his room and the computer.

There was work to be done, and so little time.

And Mello would not waste another moment of it.

Matt comes back, Hesitantly, slowly enters the room Mello is in.

"Mello," he begins, and after those two syllables, there could be anything, entreaties or _I'm sorry_s and the beginning of apologies.

Mello doesn't let him finish.

"I'm busy," he says, and there is a finality to his words, a harshness that causes surprise in Matt's eyes before that surprise turns to hardness.

"Fine," Matt says, and that is it, that is all. The end to all possible paths.

Matt slams the door as he leaves, but Mello doesn't notice.

Just a few more hours. A few more hours, and then he would be in, then he would, then he would -

Because he was close. So so close -

Mello reached over for another cup of coffee. His hands tremble ever so slightly as he does, but - eyes focused on the computer - he does not notice.

* * *

Morning, again.

Matt leaves without a word, without an offer of breakfast or coffee or chocolate. Mello doesn't notice, just as he didn't notice the anger in his friend's movements or the fact, even, that it is morning; here, in the plain four-walls-dim-lights of Matt's work room, there is little to distract him, little to tell him daynightmorning except the occasional slits of light that come from under the door. In fact, it is only when Mello runs out of coffee and must go to the kitchen for another cup that he notices that it is already afternoon.

It surprises him, dully, but there was work to be done. Work to be done, if he would still catch Zodiac. Work to be done, if he would still beat Near.

So he works. Works and works and works until -

_There._

And there he was. In.

Caroline Caster lay before him, exposed in so many files and bytes.

Sipping his coffee, Mello allowed himself a single smile -

A single smile, before the coffee crashes onto the floor and Mello crashes onto the floor,


	41. XLI

Lights. Lights and softness and warmth and - _oh shit, _were those blankets?

Mello jolts up in an instant at the thought, stares wildly around before realizing that he was still in his t-shirt and jeans and that no, it hadn't happened again, he hadn't landed himself in the hospital (again), and thankfuckinggod. Thank God.

Okay. So now that that was ascertained, all necessary fears allayed, everything sorted into neat, logical divisions - _blink, _and it all comes together. Clock, on the right wall, fifteen degrees crooked. Bedspread plaid, blankets striped and warm. Room a mess of empty Chinese take-out containers and ramen. A computer, right across from him, currently off, screen flickering a light blue.

Matt's room, quite obviously. Okay. Now for the more pertinent questions - like, for example, how the hell he had gotten here, feeling like someone had lit a fire in his head and attached lead blocks to his limbs. Because, damn, he hurt all over - sick hurt, with all its hot-cold shivers and heaviness, and even thinking hurt, physically hurt, as if someone had stuck white-hot coals into his frontal cortex, and _owowow _oh God, he felt awful, awful, maybe he ought to lie down again - only that was strange, because when was the last time he'd done that? Lie down, have a rest?

_Oh._

Oh shit oh shit oh_shit._

He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be lying down, shouldn't be resting, not when there was work, so much work work _work _to be done -

Shit. And there was the debilitating pain again. But that was okay, that was bearable - it was only pain, after all, silly physical trivial (fake) illusions, errant neurotransmitters creating feeling, but, fuck, he'd been through worse, he could (had to) make it through, could (had to had to had to) work -

And _shit _it hurt when he stood up, hurt like hell, but that was okay. Was okay. He could do this (could do this) -

Shit. Maybe not, Mello thought, vision swimming as he knocked over a crate of computer parts and just barely managed to avoid crashing into the ground by grabbing onto the edge of the table. Okay. Time to recoup, wait for things to become clear again. And then slowly stand up, slowly - ever so slowly, didn't want things going all fuzzy on him again - and _ah-ha, _he was there, at the computer, sitting down, and his head was spinning the world was spinning, but that was okay, okay, okay because he was going to work now, so long as everything just held steady long enough for him to see the keys -

And certain things didn't happen, such as the door slamming open and Matt running in.

Silence hung suspended, for the briefest of moments, splintering everything to bits and pieces of sensation: Matt's eyes, wide, Mello's fingers, frozen over the keys. The smell of stale coffee in the air. A clock, somewhere, ticking

And then the silence broke as Matt's eyes narrowed and he walked into the room.

"What," he said (very quietly, very slowly), "the hell. Do you think. You're doing."

And Mello would have answered, would have snapped back something caustic and cruel if it weren't for the fact that that was when Matt chose to explode.

"Are you a fucking _idiot?" _he yelled, shaking Mello by the collar. "You don't eat, you don't sleep for God-knows-how-long, and here you are, running a fucking hundred-degree fever, and you're still trying to _work? _Are you out of your fucking mind? Are you?"

"Do you know how goddamn _worried _I was?" Matt asked, eyes still wild as he glared at Mello. "_Do _you?"

And Mello - weak, tired, hardly able to stand - managed, somehow, to respond:

"Fuck…you."

"Well, if that's how it's going to be," Matt said, eyes narrowing as he picked up the laptop and began walking out the door, "fuck you, too."

The door slammed behind him.

* * *

Well. So there was no computer, no television, nothing but a shitty mattress and shitty pillows and the shitty cold tomato soup and ineffectual Tylenol -

And all the while, all the time, the clock tick-tick-ticking, files and files open for the searching, and here he was, pathetic, bed-bound -

Mello would have found a way around it all eventually, of course, managed somehow to connect the dots and find a way to work on the case; he was a Wammy child, after all, and it would have shown, manifested itself -

If only he hadn't been running a 103 fever and unable to move without ridiculous amounts of pain and generally feeling like shit.

And then there was Matt.

Matt, who hadn't spoken a word to him since their confrontation earlier that day - Matt, who hadn't said anything even as he'd brought in canned Campbells and over-the-counter - Matt, who wouldn't even get him chocolate, who wouldn't even look at him as he entered -

And it was stupid, stupid, stupid, and, underneath all his anger, Mello knew that it was probably his fault.

But then there was the anger. And Mello had never been able to think properly when he was angry.

So he kept silent too, ignored Matt just as fully as Matt ignored him, and didn't drink the goddamn tomato soup.

* * *

Four days later, Hannah arrives.

Mello is sitting in bed, gnawing on week-old milk chocolate and typing furiously on the laptop when she enters, all lively colors and flowing scarves and mountain-freshened smiles when she comes in.

"Hi," she says, beaming at him. "Where's Matt?"

"Not here."

"Oh." Then, brightly, holding up one of the multitude of bags she had, "ta-da!" At Mello's blank look, "something from the Alps. For you."

No response.

Hannah sighed, slowly put the rest of her bags on the table. "Aka chocolate."

And Mello stops typing so immediately and looks up so quickly Hannah laughs at it.

"Yeah," she said, and Mello could swear that there was a hint of smugness in her laughter, "chocolate. Swiss chocolate. And dark. Want some?"

From behind his laptop, Mello glared at her.

"I'll take that as a yes," Hannah said, laughing that irritating laugh of hers. But she handed over the chocolate, and it, indeed, was dark. Though at that point, Mello would have settled for Cadbury's over the generic shit Matt kept in his cupboards.

"So," Hannah said, grinning as sat down in one of Matt's battered chair and pulled it up next to him, "it's three pm on a lovely day - not that that would matter anyway, but since there's no window in this room, I thought I should just tell you - and you're sitting here, looking pretty much horrible, and I _still _find you working. And somehow, it doesn't surprise me."

"Plenty of sick people work."

"Well, _maybe," _Hannah said, waving a hand, "but generally not when they look like they've just gone through hell and back. What are you working on that's so important, anyways? Thesis paper? Book? Romantic advice column?"

"…no, no, and _hell _no."

"Yeah, that'd be pretty much the worst advice column ever, wouldn't it?" Hannah said, tucking back an errant strand of hair as she leaned forward. "So what is it that's so important that you have to sacrifice health and sleep for it? The Zodiac case?"

Abruptly, the typing stopped.

"Yeah," Hannah said, still smiling faintly in the silence, "that's kind of what I thought, too."

"You -"

"It wasn't so hard, you know, to figure things out," Hannah said, shrugging as she took out an apple from her coat pocket. "You guys were pretty obvious. Kind of stupid to be when I visit every day. Especially after you landed yourself in the hospital," Hannah said, taking a bite out of her apple, "right after Sanders Sully was attacked by a mysterious assailant. That's what they actually said on the news, did you know that? - probably. That was another tip, your obsession with the news. Would have been normal, I guess, but take it all together, and there you have it. There you have it. Pretty easy, when you look at it all together."

She shrugged, and took another bite of her apple.

Dead silence.

And then, finally, Mello put the laptop aside, looked Hannah straight in the eyes, gaze hard.

"What," he asked, and his voice was as cold as Siberian winter, "do you want now, then?"

Hannah shrugged, tossed the core of her apple into the messy trashcan under the table.

"Nothing. Except to help."

Silence.

"I'm not half-stupid, you know," Hannah continued. "4.0 GPA all through school, and I've been reading about the Zodiac case ever since I figured it out. It'd be better for you guys, anyway - take a little pressure off, let you sleep once in a while. And while I have no idea why you're trying to take on this case yourselves instead of leaving it to the police like any rational person would, if we're going to catch a murderer, well, two minds are better than one, right? Or three, in this case."

She smiled, then. A winning smile, one of such cheerfulness and earnestness that a million Parises would have fought for her and not Helen. A charming smile. An irresistible smile.

"No."  
The smile vanished.

"What?"

"I said _no. _You're not helping us._"_

_ "But - _but - well, this _is _the stupidest thing I've heard all day -"

"It's not. If you were as smart as you thought you were, you'd have already thought of it and never tried to join," Mello said, calming turning away from a sputtering Hannah towards his laptop again. "Your trying to help us was the stupidest thing _I've _heard all day."

"Stupid? Stupid? I offer to help you, and you call me _stupid?"_

"Would you rather I lie to your face?"

"When Matt comes home, he's going to agree with me -"

"Oh _really?" _Mello asked, not keeping the derision from his voice this time. "You think he's going to approve of letting his girlfriend run across England, chasing around a known murderer?"

"I've taken self-defense classes -"

"Did they teach you what to do when you're up against a dangerous criminal with a gun? What are you going to do then, when you've got nothing and the other guy has a semi-automatic? Try to twist his arm away?"

Silence. And then -

"Fine," Hannah said, slowly standing up. "Fine. That's fine with me if you don't want my help. Be a self-destructive idiot if you want. I'm leaving."

Mello blinked. Stopped typing, for the shortest of moments.

Soon enough, though, the air was filled with the sounds of clacking keys again.

Hannah gathered her bags and headed for the door.

Mello did not look up.

At the door, Hannah paused, turned around to look briefly back at Mello.

"I'm not useless, you know," she said, and there was no smile on her face now, none of the cheer she had entered with, nothing at all, "even if you think I am."

And then the door closed.

Mello forced himself to continue typing.

Damn women. Always getting worked up and emotional and unreasonable. But, still, it was better this way, it was. Better that Hannah leave, better that she be no part of this. Better that she not end up a number, a statistic, a bloody body left to rot.

Better, even if she hated him for it.

Mello continues typing. And he keeps at it, types and researches and hacks in the shitty room with the shitty mattress and shitty computer that he'd taken back from Matt, works and works long after the front door opens and Matt enters (still silent, still distant) and the sun sets.

Hannah's chocolate sits on the table, untouched.


	42. LXII

Woah, Spring Break has been a good week for updates, hasn't it? Well, so here you guys go! An update! And since short chapter is short, you get a double update, too!

* * *

The next day, Zodiac strikes again.

A relatively small town, a simple murder: Bromsgrove, a simple shot in the back, the way it had occurred in Oldbury. A teenaged couple. A tragedy, Mello supposed.

But there was no note, and so it was not important.

So Mello passes over it, takes obligatory note of the basic details, and then moves on.

There were, after all, more important things to do. There always were.

* * *

Friday night, and all across Oxford, college students are meeting in bars, in clubs, in a frats; Friday night, college students all across Oxford are partying, dancing, drinking.

Friday night, and Mello sits at his desk, and follows leads on Caroline Caster.

She was a promising, one, after all - more promising, if possible, than either Ánle or Zeno.

Third-in-line: ambitious, a math prodigy. Popular, gregarious; pretty, in the pictures he could find of her. Unlike Ánle, though, the cruelty was visible in her, seen in a million small incidents and commented on by a dozen different caretakers. She had been worrying, even then, the type of child who serenely pulled the wings off flies and made children cry with a smile.

But what was more worrying - what was more _important - _was that she had, it seemed, loved B.

A million small incidents, noticed by a dozen different caretakers - small presents at Christmas, slight drops in grades in classes with B, little things, "_Caroline seems especially lively this Valentine's Day" - _and that, the sudden depression, the drastic drop in performance when B had left. She had been gone, too, not long after.

And was now - like Ánle, like Zeno - missing. Missing. Not a note, nothing more in the database after she had left Wammy's, which normally kept such meticulous notes on its students -

Nothing.

So Mello worked with nothing, started with nothing and slowly trailed all the places B had been known to be - because Caroline would have been there, would have been, with a lover's unflinching loyalty followed -

But. All across England, all across Britain - even in America, where the B murderers had been, so many years ago - there was no trail, no clue, no sign of Caroline. Once again, nothing.

_Nothing to nothing, ashes to ashes - _

Still. Still, despite it all, Mello kept on searching.

So Mello works and works, and Matt studies, and Hannah comes and goes, and neither of them says a word to Mello.


	43. XLIII

It's quite a simple process, really. Load, aim, fire. All it takes is practice.

Mello still doesn't know what's so impressive about it, really, doesn't know why they all stare when he does it, that simple, repetitive pattern of load, aim, fire. Perhaps it had to do with the leather, or perhaps the fact that he was about twenty years younger than all the other patrons, but whatever the reason, Mello was being noticed, and he did not appreciate it. He had, after all, come here for _privacy._

And he had gotten it, the first few days. But now there they were - a group of men dressed in thick coats and equipped with hunting rifles - watching as he shot at wooden targets with an old Russian gun.

And they wouldn't fucking _go away._

Mello tries to ignore them, as best he can, even though their presence grates on his nerves, makes his hands and aim unsteady from annoyance. But this is how it will be (how it always has been), and so Mello forces himself to straighten his aim despite the anger, to drill the rhythm into his fingers: load, aim, fire.

And that is all. All rhythm, all repetition, with no room for emotion or the wild anger that had driven him all his life. None of that, not now - just, cold, calm precision.

He hits the targets dead center, three times, and the crowd erupts into cheers.

Really, Mello thinks as he returns the Makarov to its case, it wasn't all that hard, not when you got down to it. He sees no reason for their excitement.

It was a good spot, though, Mello thinks as he walks past the crowd of spectators towards the exit, good facilities and relative privacy, even taking today into account. Perhaps he'd come again.

Mello opens the gate to exit, and a hand comes down on his shoulder.

Instantly, Mello is alert, all nerves and newly-wrought reflexes as he turns around, one hand reaching for his gun -

"Woah, calm down there, now," the man in front of him says, laughing as holds up both hands. "I saw what you can do with a Makarov there, so don't you go pointing it at me."

Slowly, Mello lowers the gun, watching the man as he does it. The man is smiling: calmly, serenely, as though he had not had a gun pointed at him moments before.

"What do you want?" Mello asks.

"What do I want? Well, that's a strange way to put it. I was going to ask you for a coffee and a sandwich, sometime."

The surprise must have shown in Mello's eyes, because the man elaborated.

"We don't get a lot of kids your age here, and so it's a rare treat for us, you see - we're nearly all of us parents or grandparents, and it's hard, especially in this age, to get our kids interested in what we do. And, to tell the truth, you're pretty damn good - a lot better than most of the people here, if to be really honest. So it'd be nice, you see, if someday, you could -"

"I can't," Mello says, curtly turning away.

"Oh?" the man asks. "Are you sure? It wouldn't take any time at all -"

"I'm busy."

"All the time, I take it?"

"Yes."

"Ah, you kids," the man said, sighing, "it's always rushing everywhere, always going or on the way to going to places. It's the way things are with your generation, I suppose, always fast, always going places, but you've got to learn to slow down once in a while. It's a cruel world, really, that leaves you without the time for a sandwich, and personally, you look like you could use one. That, and some sleep."

"Thanks. But I'm fine."

Mello smiled, cool and brittle, and turned to leave.

* * *

Hannah was at Matt's flat when Mello arrived, chopping tomatoes and celery and other disgustingly green-colored vegetables for dinner.

She did not say anything as Mello came in, and Mello did not say anything to her.

Setting his stuff down, he walked into the room where the computers were, and turned on his laptop. As it loaded, he rummaged for a candy bar out of his pocket, chewed it idly in the low light that accentuated the circles under his eyes from recent sickness and scant sleep.

The news first, of course. The headlines, the police operations - signs of a murderer, signs of a murder, second in a string that would become three. Nothing.

So onto the police databases, for news not yet released to the public, possible captures and notices of missing murderers. Nothing.

Then, at last - grudging, unwilling even now to use it as a source of information - to Near's system.

Mello's eyes flickered through the page, and then they stopped, froze at a phrase.

No. No. Nononononono_no._

_ (Ánle caught.)_

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. This was supposed to be his case, his investigation, his victory, his his his the only thing that he had ever won, ever done right -

(_Report to L.) _

And now L would know, too. L would know that Near had done it, done it like he had done everything else (coldly, meticulously, flawlessly), and it would be done. Near would be L. And Mello? He'd be what he'd always been: second-place, second-best, second-rate -

(pathetic, useless)

- unneeded. Backup. Backup, like B had been, backup and useless and nothing, nothing more -

And to live with that? To with failure, with loss? How could anyone do that? How could _he _do that? How could -

(_No.)_

And there it was. So simple, so clean, so beautifully cool and logical.

And dazed by its beauty, its loveliness, its sheer _obviousness, _Mello stood up, took his gun in hand, and walked out of the apartment.

He heard Hannah's cries as he readied the engine of his motorcycle, but Mello was long gone when she rushed out of the door.


	44. XLIV

Advanced Programming, and Matt's cell phone goes off, three times.

"Sorry, Professor," Matt says, and tries desperately to seem as unobtrusive as possible as he slinks out of the room.

"Oh, God, Hannah," he hisses when he sees the caller idea, "what do you think you're doing? Hello?"

"It's Thomas," she says, breathless even through the phone. "He's gone somewhere and I don't know where - didn't even take a _jacket, _even in this weather - but _oh God Matt _he looked awful and he was carrying a gun and -"

And instantly all Matt's senses are on high alert, all irritation and thoughts of Java gone as he says into the receiver:

"Where?"

"I _don't _know, Matt - I said that, remember? I don't -"

"What direction, then?"

"I don't know! _I don't know! _He could be anywhere by now - oh, God, Matt, what if -"

"Hannah," he says, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice, "calm down, okay? I'll drive home right now. It'll be okay."

"But, Matt -"

"It'll be okay," he repeats, trying to infuse some semblance of comfort into his voice. "It'll be okay."

Hannah doesn't say anything to that, and Matt doesn't blame her.

It wasn't like he believed himself, either.

* * *

Mello stood there. The sky was gray above him and the grass spread out before him, slickly black in the moonlight.

There was a gun in his hand.

He stood there, and did not move.

* * *

"But are you _sure _you didn't see where he went? And you have no idea where he is?_"_

_ "_No! No, Matt, I really don't know -"

"Well, then, fuck it all, Hannah, what the hell are we supposed to do now?"

Silence.

Matt's eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, God, Hannah - I'm so sorry - I didn't mean -"

"Someplace private."

"I'm sorry?"

"Someplace private," Hannah repeated, "he'd go someplace private. Someplace where no one could find him - at least, not for a long time."

"But then he could be anywhere!"

"Not in the state he was in," Hannah said, shaking her head. "He would have wanted someplace private, yes, but he would have wanted someplace close by - someplace where he could - could do it. He would have thought," she continued, "but he would have been angry, too. And there are only so many private places near Oxford."

A pause.

And then -

"You cover the south half," Matt says, grabbing for his jacket, "and I'll take the north. Call me if you find him - I'll do the same."

"Matt -"

He paused, then, turned back and smiled at her.

"Hey," he said, "it's going to be okay. It really is. Now come on," he said, picking up his car keys, "let's go find Thomas."

* * *

He ought to do it now. End it.

He ought.

Mello stared out at the sky, but did not move.

* * *

And then there he was. A silhouette, a mere figure on a hill. A slice of darkness against the cemetery night.

Matt parked his car.

The figure did not move.

Slowly, Matt got out of the car, gently closing the door behind him. And, slowly, he began walking up towards the figure.

"Hey," he called softly. "I've been looking for you."

No response.

"Bit chilly to go out without a coat, isn't it?"

Still that silence, that deathly stillness.

"It's not a nice night out. C'mon. Let's go back -"

"I can't."

Pause.

"Why not, then?"

No answer.

"Mello -"

"Near caught Ánle, Matt. Ánle confessed. It's over. Near won."

"Mello - you make it sound as though that means your life is over."

Mello said nothing.

"Mels - c'mon - you can't be seriously saying -"

"Saying what, Matt?" Mello asked, slowly turning around. "I've only saying what I've been told, Matt - only saying what I've been taught my whole entire life."

"Mels -"

"You know, that's the funny thing about Wammy's," Mello said, eyes far away as his fingers played with the gun cradled in his hands, "that they take all these kids - the best of the best, freethinkers, kids who would have otherwise been damn well happy with their lives- and they ground them up. Fill their heads with words. Show them the sky, and then cut out a patch of it, tell them that that's the only part worth looking at. And if they miss - or if they choose another piece of the sky - then no, that's not right. That you've failed, you've missed, you're a screw-up and a failure and fuckup. And that's all you'll ever be. And you, something strange - I believed them. Present tense, actually. Believe."

Matt stared at him. Stared and stared and stared at him, the most lost and helpless expression in his eyes.

"But somehow," Mello said, fingers still playing with the trigger of the gun as he now looked straight at Matt, "when I got here, I couldn't. Because that would giving up, too. That would be a failure. To Hannah. To you."

Silence.

Slowly, Mello opened the gun and tipped it downwards. Let all the bullets fall onto the grass.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "For being a fuckup."

Another silence.

"You haven't been taking your meds, have you?"

"No. Not really."

They stayed there for a while, Mello standing and Matt sitting as the stars moved. Matt lit a cigarette.

"You know," Matt said quietly, "she's not so bad, really, Hannah."

"I know."

"I mean, she's a little uptight at times, but she has a good heart, even if she likes to flout it. She told me, you know. That you would probably be here."  
Mello didn't answer, only stared at the lights above. Slowly picks out constellations from starry sky.

"Shit, Mello," Matt said, smiling as he turned to Mello, and Mello is startled to see tears in his eyes, "this really isn't getting better, is it?"

Mello is silent. And in silence, they stare at the stars.

* * *

"You know," Matt says as they speed down the highway, "there'll be other cases."

"Yeah," Mello says. "I know."

* * *

Blerg...kind of not completely satisfied with this chapter, but it's three in the morning and I really ought to get some sleep.

Thank you all for sticking with me, and I'll try to update soon!


	45. XLV

A/N: Oh my goodness, I'm posting this a lot later than I wanted to. Sorry for the wait, guys – I had AP tests and all that jazz, which, in hindsight, is no excuse, but anyways, you're all wonderful for waiting, so much love to you all for that!

* * *

It is late, and the food is burning.

Hannah doesn't mind, though, doesn't even notice as she sprints into the apartment, jacket half-on and a million words on the tip of her tongue -

"Oh my God, Matt, I'm so sorry - I was _on _my way, and then the cabbie in front of me apparently thought it was a good idea to suddenly go from eighty to zero in five seconds, and I _just barely _managed to avoid turning the backside of his car into scrap metal, and then he decided to get into an _aw_ful row about it and -"

She pauses, then, adrenaline petering out into awareness as the door swung behind her, one-two, one-two.

"Matt. Are you - why are - are you_ cooking_?"

"Hm?" Matt asks, dim light reflecting from his goggles as he looks up from where he is stirring spaghetti. "Um, well, yes. I guess? Well, okay," he admits, glancing at the smoldering substance that had once been spaghetti, "maybe not."

And it such a Matt thing to say, all wry honesty and light self-deprecation, that Hannah cannot help but smile at it, smile and laugh before bursting into sudden, violent tears.

"Shh," Matt whispers, arms warm and steady around her as Hannah buries her face into his shoulder, "shh, shh. It's okay, it's okay."

"M'not your dog, Mattie," Hannah murmurs, embarrassment twisting into something halfway resentful as it leaves her mouth.

"Yeah?" Matt asks, pulling slightly apart and puts his hands on her shoulders.

"Yeah."

"Well, that's good then - I imagine it'd be awkward as hell if my girlfriend turned out to be a dog."

Hannah laughs at that, short and slightly hysterical, before she lowers her head and wipes her face on her sleeve.

"Hey," Matt says, gently cupping her face in his hands, "don't cry, okay? Please?"

She nods, then, sniffles again, and turns to wipe her face clean on her sleeve. But Matt's hands catch her, stop her as he gently wipes away her tears.

"C'mon," he says, wrapping his fingers around hers, "let's make dinner, okay?"

* * *

They made dinner. They ate dinner, cold marinara sauce on whole-wheat pasta that Hannah picked at. Matt didn't say anything, and though he was quick to smile whenever Hannah looked up, there was something tired in the smile, something old.

They loaded the dishwasher, cleaned up the table, kissed goodnight, and not once did they say anything about that night.

* * *

Mello woke up to light and silence.

He lay there for a moment: quiet, still, blinking in the faint sunlight streaming in through the curtains. Lay there and listened to the faint hum of machinery and shrill birdsong, lay there and observed the faint flutter of the curtains in the air, the green-blue of veins on pale skin. Watched the clock tick-tick-tick the minutes away.

Time passed.

And, slowly, Mello stood up. Stood up without glancing at the computer; stood up with no rush, no uncontrollable urges to turn on the news channel or search for newspapers. Stood up calmly, quietly, and made himself a cup of coffee.

And that was all.

And that was all.

* * *

And then it is afternoon, afternoon and bright-edged coldness as the hours bleed into one another, tick-tick-tick, time going by-by-by _bye -_

And Mello is sitting inside, leftover Christmas chocolate between his teeth, watching the sun glimmer on the melting snow.

He had not checked any of the news websites, and there had no newspapers that morning. Better, though - better this way. To not know. Not see. Better, now that the floor had fallen out beneath his feet, to not think on _that -_

Not quite yet.

In the bright sunshine, a couple rode by - the girl behind the boy, holding onto his waist: helmeted, slight, laughing as her hair whipped in the air - the red of their motorcycle flashing bright in the sunshine.

Mello watched it all, watched the boy park the bike and help the girl off, removing her helmet and kissing her head. Watched her blush, laugh gently as he took her hand and led her inside his flat. Watched it all, chocolate between his teeth and mind for once quiet, for once still.

He ought to sell the guns, he thinks, idly snapping a piece of chocolate, pawn them off somewhere when he had time. When he had time. When he had time.

* * *

Matt returns at five, returns carrying papers and smelling of cigarette smoke. For a moment, his eyes widen when he does not see Mello, but then the sound of crackling foil calms him, and Matt smiles (weary, old) and puts his books down.

"Hey, Mels," he says, walking into the living room, taking out a cigarette as he plops down in the sagging couch. Mello nods in return, but does not turn to look at Matt.

Matt lights his cigarette. Mello sits there, eats his chocolate as his eyes scan the scene outside the window.

They pass a while in silence.

"So I was thinking," Matt says, taking out his cigarette, "we go out to eat somewhere tonight instead of trying to cook something up."

"Why?"

Matt shrugs. "No reason. Hannah thought it'd be a good idea - and, 'sides, if Hannah's not going to be here, we might as well spare ourselves the trouble of trying to find something edible the cupboard."

Another silence.

"Where?" Mello asks, sharply turning his gaze away from the window.

"Some Indian place. Hannah likes it. We can get ice cream after."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," Mello says, nodding as he stands up, putting his chocolate on the table as he slips a jacket on. "Okay."

* * *

Half-way through the meal, the waiter informs Matt that, dreadfully sorry, sir, but this is a non-smoking restaurant, and if you would please Take It Outside the other guests would be Awfully Grateful.

To which Matt grumbles and mutters something about nanny-state socialism before eventually standing up (pushing his chair in with a quite a bit more force than necessary) and leaving.

Hannah waits a few minutes after Matt leaves, and then grins and leans over the table towards Mello.

"Okay," she says, "so Matt's birthday is the first of February, right? And that's practically less than a month away at this point, and it'll be the first birthday of his since we got together, and soIwasthinking maybe weshouldgettogether. And. You know. Throwapartyforhim."

Mello didn't say anything.

"I mean," Hannah hurried on, waving a hand as she talked, "I thought it'd be nice, and we don't have to have it at Matt's place, if it's too small or something, and we could have it as a surprise, and - well, you don't have to or anything, if you don't want to, it's just - "

"Okay."

Hannah blinked.

"Okay," Mello repeated. "Good idea. Do it."

Pause.

"Great!" Hannah said, beaming as she took a sip of water. "Alright, then, so the first thing we should decide is decorations - something not too fancy, but nice - confetti and banners, of course, but what else? I don't know, but we have time, we can decide later. And we should have maybe a video game competition of some sort - though we'd have to invite some of Matt's gamer friends, because God knows he would trounce us - and, oh, of course! cake, obviously. Because you really can't have a proper party without cake - and I know a wonderful vegan bakery that does dark chocolate and Nutella -"

Mello doesn't say anything, doesn't nod, doesn't move. Just sits and lets Hannah talk - eyes outside, eyes far, far away.


	46. XLVI

A/N: Yay, look at me FINALLY updating this story! *hands head in shame*

Honestly, though, I'm sorry I haven't been posting recently…things have been hectic, so yeah, what can you do…but I do hope I can update more frequently from now until the start of school ^^

Deepest apologies once again, and I hope the chapter is okay.

* * *

Doors: locked. Windows: closed. Walls: reinforced, padded. Guards: present, idle, twelve.

Ánle Adair: bound and asleep.

6:19:33, and the prisoner was secure.

Watching through the cameras, Near notes this, nods, and returns to his toys.

* * *

8:02:18.

"We," Near says, voice loud, slightly scratchy through the microphones, "are going to interrogate you now."

Near pauses, gives Ánle ten seconds to respond, before continuing.

"What is your name."

He doesn't answer - doesn't need to, of course; Near already know (_Ánle Adair, current pseudonym Seamus Collins, formerly John Barrows, formerly A and another name, too, one long long before all the others). _But there were procedures, of course, and procedures had to be observed.

"If you do not answer," Near says, when the silence has dragged out long enough _(three minutes and twenty-five seconds), _"there will be consequences."

He gives a barely perceptible nod, and - across the room - Lester speaks into his headset, gives staccato orders that linger, echo in stark whiteness.

On the camera, the cell door opens, and one of the guards enters. Ánle - bound, tied, secure - does not look up.

"I repeat," Near says, not looking at the camera as he adds another die to his dice tower, "what is your name."

In the room, the guard towers over Ánle.

Near waits.

Ánle says nothing.

Near sighs, and nods to Lester.

There is blood, blood that drips slowly onto the ground when it is finished. Near is displeased with this - he had specifically ordered that the persuasion be neat, bloodless - and makes a note to fire the guard.

Near waits, a few more moments, as blood drip-drip-drips onto the ground.

"Alright," he says, "how old are you, Aedan Aherne."

No answer. No response, even, to being called by his real name - one which should have, by all rights, died at the door to Wammy's - only silence and drip-drip-drip of blood.

Near waits, then nods, and continues playing with his dice.

* * *

12:30:47 PM, and lunch is brought in.

It is plain food, prison food - green beans, stew, and porridge, all boiled and overcooked to within an inch of edibility - and it comes in wooden bowls and with no utensils.

They let Ánle eat with his arms tied.

Near waits thirty minutes exactly, and then begins asking questions.

"Why did you join the IRA."

No answer.

Nod.

Blood, red and bright, on white walls.

"How did you pick your victims."

Silence.

Nod. Blood.

"What was your relationship with Beyond Birthday."

"How did you contact the other murderers."

"Why did they listen to you."

"Why did you kill them."

Nothing.

Nothing, nothing but silence, nod, blood.

* * *

And then it is suddenly night, night and all the officers gone to family and warmth and sleep, night and all dark and crickets chirping in the silence outside -

But inside the walled building, the lights are dimmed but on as Near watches and waits.

Ánle has not said anything since his arrest, but Near is not concerned. He can wait. He will wait.

23:21:39, and the guards change. The two guards stand there a while, quietly talking in front of Ánle, bloodied and bruised and completely quiet.

* * *

23:35:21.

"I must warn you," Near says, speaking softly into the headset, "that smoking while on duty is strictly prohibited."

The guard started, stared around, and then - slowly, nervously - nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Throw away your cigarette," Near continues, slowly adding another card to his tower, "and your lighter."

"Yes, sir."

He does.

"Empty your pockets now, officer."

"But sir, I -"

"Empty your pockets."

There is a brief moment when something crosses the guard's eyes, anger and resentment and _no, _and then it is gone as he nods and complies.

There are five pounds and fifteen pence, a carefully folded crayon drawing, a crumpled napkin, a stub of pencil, and a few stray matches.

"Throw them away."

He does. Almost

"And the paper, too."

The guard pauses, looks slowly at the drawing in his hands, the messy lines of red and purple that were the evidence of childish hands.

He bites his lip.

"Everything, officer. Your daughter can make you another one tomorrow."

The guard starts, eyes widen at the mention of his daughter, and then he grimly nods and throw the paper away.

It was not a kind thing to do, Near knew, not a good thing to do - could cause resentment, anger, disloyalty among his subordinates. He does not care. He is being cautious.

Beyond, after all, had tried to burn himself to death.

* * *

23:43:13, and Near stacks the final cards on his tower, finds himself vaguely disappointed that there are no decks left.

He shrugs, and then knocks the tower over before beginning anew.

Outside Ánle's cell, the guard slowly exhales, looks down at his watch before staring back at the wall.

* * *

23:48:42, and something beeps in the quiet of the prison.

The guard pauses, reaches in one pocket and takes out a grey-and-red cell phone.

"Officer," Near said, not looking up from his cards, "I thought I told you to clear your pocket of all contents."

The guard looks up, and even through the blurry cameras, there is shock in his eyes.

"But, sir - this is my _phone -_"

"Then you may retrieve it when your shift is over. Now throw it away."

There was a silence, a pause - numb, unbelieving.

"Officer, on your person as it is, your phone is a major risk should the prisoner get free. If you were injured while on duty, it would take you quite a while to recover. Now throw it away."

"But - it's a phone! And he's tied up! How could he possibly -"

"_Officer," _Near says, and there is menace in the monotone of his voice, "throw it away. Now."

The guard does not move, not for a long, long time. And then, slowly, slowly, he closes the phone, takes a step towards the dustbin -

Only to be suddenly pulled back, one thin, bloodied hand on his wrist.

Several things happened at once, then.

First: Near opened his mouth to call for reinforcements, but suddenly found that he could not, that his mouth was suddenly frozen, as unable to obey his mind as his suddenly petrified limbs.

Second: the guard turned around, twisting his wrist in a reflex action that would have surely shaken off the grip of much heavier men than Ánle Adair - but which did not shake off Ánle's.

Third: as the guard tried to free himself, Ánle - face bloodied, the ropes around his feet and arms slipped off with all the ease of a snake shedding its skin - pulled him in towards the cell, slammed his head against cold steel - once, twice, _ohsomany _times.

There was a struggle, of course, but it wasn't much - by the sixth or the seventh blow, the guard's eyes were starting to glaze, and it wasn't much longer before he slumped to the ground, eyes unseeing behind half-closed lenses.

Ánle let go of him, then, and bent down. There was the soft rustle of metal, and then a flash of light as he stood up, keys in hand.

The lock _clicked _as it unlocked, and Ánle's steps echoed in the silence as he walked over to the dustbin.

He took his time, carefully etching each letter with the dead guard's tiny pencil onto the crumpled, crayon-colored paper.

And then, lighter in hand, he walked back into his cell, closed and the locked the door. Smiled, as Near sat and watched and _could not move._

00:00:00, and Ánle Adair smiles, smiles as he flicks open the lighter, pale warm light that dances in the dark as he brings it to his wrist.

* * *

Afterwards, when the bodies are removed and the fire out but the smell of ash and burning bone is still fresh in the air, a small paper floats onto the ground. Its edges are lightly singed, but the words written on it are still there, clear and untouched amidst red dinosaurs and purple letters that proclaim, "For Daddy."

* * *

_How pathetic. Even now, I do not know why I deign to dignify you with even this. Were you not the strong one, the great one? The gifted one, the chosen one? And yet even this, the most rudimentary of tasks, you cannot perform. Where is your sangfroid, the brilliance and composure you were so famed for _now_, L? Still, you are nothing for him. Try and find him, and he will watch you fail._

_A.A._


	47. XLVII

A/N: Wow, I do suck at updating regularly, don't I? Well...as it is, have a Thanksgiving update! (for those of you in the US – and for those of you not in the US, well, go eat some pie anyways!)

Several lines from here taken from Anne Sexton's poem 'Wanting to Die,' all credit goes to her and her fabulous writing skills.

Edit: apparently I accidentally wrote Zeno for Anle a few times at the end OTL

But that's fixed now, so yay editing!

* * *

The alarm rings at six am, exactly once.

After that, it is to the bathroom: brush teeth, wash face, comb hair. Eat breakfast: toast and coffee, steaming as it burns his tongue in the winter air. Shrug on jacket, go outside, the wind sharp daggers against his skin.

Walk, for a long, long time.

Lunch at noon. Stop by the library: read, Dickens and Dostoyevsky and Pasternak, crinkled pages that are dusted with nostalgia. There isn't much else to do.

At five, he heads back; Matt will usually be back by then, and will smile briefly when he sees Mello, trying to hide the anxiety still in his eyes. Sometimes, Hannah will be there as well, bustling about the kitchen with her tofu and whole-wheat spaghetti; sometimes, she will not, and Matt will laze about, lazing about and playing X-box until it's eight or nine and he decides to order Chinese. Mello doesn't mind. Sometimes, he doesn't even notice.

They stay up, some nights, Matt smoking through his cigarettes in a silence broken only by occasional curses at his screen, Mello idly flipping through Matt's textbooks as he eats his way through the Christmas candy. The flat is silent those nights, a small, crowded place that smells of grease and chow mein, but Mello doesn't mind. It had been much the same way at Wammy's, in those days when the world had seemed nothing more than a series of tests and the magic words had been _if you try hard enough, then –_

* * *

Mello stays up long after Matt has waved his sleepy good-byes, sits there quietly flipping through textbooks or staring out of the windows. Sometimes, he turns on the television, clicks through channels until he gets to something not completely mediocre (not the news, though – never the news). Watches it, waits until it gets so late his head starts drooping of its own accord. And then, only then, does he allow himself to sleep.

Sometimes, though, it's not enough. And then, in the crack of sometime between waking and sleep, the thoughts come, unbidden.

Sometimes, he wonders. Wonders what he is doing and how pathetic it must be, wonders _why _and _why not? _and how simple it would be, how easy easy _easy, _and why was he even doing this anymore? What was there left for him, the loser, second-place and second-best, living on stolen time and unearned kindness_ –_

He has to remind himself, in those moments, remind himself of that night, Matt and Hannah wandering in the darkness, the frantic texts and missed calls. It helps, then, a little, but he is always beyond grateful when sleep comes.

(Sometimes, he wants to let the alarm ring twice, three times maybe or even to let it go and on, never-stopping as he lies there, still and silent and sleeping the rest of his life away –

But then he always slams it off, and then stands up and gets ready for the new day.)

* * *

It is his birthday, and Matt is pleasantly surprised.

"Well, of course you're supposed to be surprised," Hannah says, rolling her eyes when he says it, "it's a _surprise _party, after all." But she's smiling as she says it, and can barely contain her excitement as she pulls him inside.

There are balloons, red and blue and yellow and green that bob in the doorway, and banners, streamers hung everywhere that declare HAPPY BIRTHDAY MATT in garish colors, and everyone is there, grinning as they welcome him in with beer and presents –

"Wow," Matt says, turning away and grinning at Hannah. "I know I'm supposed to be surprised, but seriously, this is _incredible."_

Hannah shrugs at that, but she can't help but a blush a little when Matt leans down and kisses her. "It was nothing," she says, waving a hand at the elaborate decorations, "everyone pitched in when I told them about it, were really helpful and stuff – Sandi did most of the banners, she was always good with that sort of stuff, and you wouldn't be_lieve _how much help Thomas was –"

"Thomas?"

"Yeah," Hannah said, voice cautious as her eyes watched Matt's face, "he helped with a good third or so of it, I think? Very nice, actually. He helped bake the cake."

"Oh," Matt says finally. "That's very...nice."

"Yeah," Hannah says, and there is still a touch of wariness in her smile as she pulls Matt inside, "very nice."

* * *

Later, Mello stands against the railing, chocolate bar poised against his teeth as he stares out into the darkness. Inside, he knows, a party is going on, full of lights and people and enough chocolate cupcakes for a conquering army, one that taken endless hours of baking and preparation on both Hannah's part and his, and he knows he ought to go in, participate because it would be best, be normal and cathartic and help him integrate into normal life as well –

It would be the better thing to do. He knows that. He knows. And yet. Yet.

Mello does nothing, only stares outside and stares at the stars.

And it disgusts him, disgusts him so suddenly and thoroughly that for a moment he wants to give in, stop trying and simply fling himself over the stairs – because dammit dammit _dammit, _this wasn't how it was supposed to be, this was so stupid and illogical and so very, very pathetic– This wasn't supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be simple, this was supposed to be _easy – _it was instinctual, the thing every child did from birth –

And yet. Yet. Somehow, amidst the tests and calculus, between the books and essays – somehow, living had become the hardest thing.

* * *

Sometime, somewhere between the time Mello first goes outside and the second round of video games finishes, Matt comes outside, slips next to Mello with a cigarette and a quiet "hey."

Mello nods, says nothing as he stares off into the distance. Matt lets him, lighting a cigarette in the silence, one hand cupped around the flame of his lighter.

"You know," Mello says finally, not looking at Matt as the words came out, "you shouldn't be here."

"Oh?"

"It's your birthday. You should be back there. Celebrating."

Matt considers this a moment, cigarette between fingers as he blinks up at Mello. And then he shrugs, shakes his head and grins with an easy "naw. Don't want to, anyways," he adds, flicking cigarette ash over the balcony, "they're already giving me enough hell for losing that last round, wouldn't want them to think I went away to cry about it or something."

"You're out _already?"_

"Hey, stop that – not my fault if all the other guys are bastards who decide to gang up on the birthday boy. Hey, no, I meant it, _stop _looking like that –"

"Losing your touch, are we?" Mello ask, smirking around a mouthful of chocolate. "Getting out of practice?"

"Oh _shut _up," Matt grumbled, slumping onto the railing as he punched Mello in the arm. "Should have known you'd be a smug bastard about it, too –"

"– lost? Actually _lost? _What about all those times you said you were unbeatable, that you'd never lost to _anyone _ever, ever before –"

"Yeah, well," Matt said, shrugging as he reached for another cigarette, "we can't all be the best at everything, now can we."

Mello said nothing.

"Sorry –"

"Don't be."

Matt sighed, took his cigarette out and slowly stood up.

"Look, Mels – I mean, are you – it's just, I mean, are you _really –_"

"Goddamnit, Matt, yes, fucking _yes, _I'm _fine! _Okay?!_"_

A silence. From inside, the sound of glasses clinking, someone swearing amidst the sounds of bomb explosions.

Slowly, Mello looked down, slowly turned away from Matt.

"Sorry," he muttered, voice so low it could hardly be heard over the sound of tinny machine gun fire.

"Don't be."

Mello whirled around –

And saw Matt smiling. And stared: eyes open with shock, blue and unguarded and almost childlike with surprise. And relaxed, the tension going out of his shoulders, the wariness fading from his eyes.

And smiled: harsh and bitter, burnt chocolate and bitter coffee, but still. A smile. A smile.

It would get better, with time. With time.

(It had to. It had to.)

And they stood there a while, two figures silhouetted in the balcony light, shadows long against the walls and white smoke trailing up to the stars.

* * *

And after, when all the streamers had been put away and only a few beer bottles leaned against the walls, all the guests long disappeared and even Hannah gone for the night _(physics test, _she told Matt, smiling ruefully as she helped unpin a banner, _have to study for that – aren't math prodigies here, you know_), Mello was alone.

It was dark, and the darkness was speaking.

It was the same words, the same insinuations and suggestions he had always thought about so so many times before, thoughts of _why _and _how _(_pills a definite no, poisoning too ineffective) _and _why (_so pathetic_), why (_so worthless_), why (_even _alive), why why why _and _how_ (_falling – ninety-eight percent of success and an accident besides, shame lost and buried in words – or guns again, head and not heart this time) _and _why not –_

The same words. The same words, a siren's song of darkness and destruction and death (_a drug so sweet even children would smile_) –

Mello sat up. Stood up, blankets sliding silently to the ground, fumbled for the lamp switch.

The light turned on.

Around him, Matt's furniture stood innocently, serenely – not a hint of their former menace present now. Shadows a function of the light.

Mello stared around, eyes still wild with wariness, then sighed. Ran a hand through his hair with fingers still slightly shaking. Sat down again, worm couch sagging slightly under his weight, and reached for a chocolate bar.

His mind was still racing, however, as he unwrapped the foil, and the darkness was still there even after his fingers long stopped shaking.

It was going to be one of those nights.

Mello sat there awhile, methodically breaking off pieces of chocolate, eyes a vacant, cold blue as he chewed. A quiet ritual.

After a while, though, he stopped. Put the bar down, half-eaten, fingers dusted with cacao. Stared at the wall for a long, long time.

(_leaving something unsaid, the phone off the hook _–)

He needed a distraction, a challenge, a diversion, something something _anything _that would his mind busy. A book (_even though he had read all the books in Matt's flat, finished them within a week after Anle had been caught)_ or a newspaper (_even though Matt had canceled the subscription the night he had found Mello at the graveyard) _or, or, or –

Mello's eyes caught on the coffee table, and for a moment he hesitated.

And then the darkness laughed, a high, mocking thing of _pathetic _and _worthless _that rang in his head. And then Mello reached for the remote, pressed the _on _button as if it were a lifeline.

There was a moment of silence and static, and then light and sound filled the room.

And for a few minutes, that was all, flickering blue light and murmurs of announcer's words.

And then suddenly there was a crash, as of something dropping from shock, and the next thing Matt knew, the lights were on an Mello was in his room, pacing and talking a mile a minute, something about Near and Anle and suicide and _don't you see, Matt, don't you fucking _see? _Zodiac is alive, Matt. _Alive.

(And suddenly everything was right again.)


	48. XLVIII

Update before the end of the world! Hope it's okay, and stay safe on the apocalypse ;)

(also - last chapter, towards the end, for some reason I accidentally wrote Anle as Zeno? It's fixed now, but sorry for any confusion that might have caused orz)

* * *

There are maps, now – street maps and building schematics on the counter, on the floor, freshly printed or bought and already highlighted and annotated, already wrinkled from use.

Mello is talking a mile a minute, pacing back and forth and waving his chocolate about back as he figures it out – "it'll be 404 something, that's the room it was in, that's the room Beyond tried to kill him in, we need the street, but it'll be 404" – and there is a _purposefulness _in his steps now, a brightness in his eyes as he talks and talks, explains theory and plan, an animation in every quick movement and flick of wrist that Matt hadn't seen for several weeks –

And yet, despite all that, Matt wasn't so sure how to feel about it.

Oh, yes, it was nice to see Mello like this again – walking again, talking and thinking and planning again, arrogantly demanding and callous and so very much more _alive _than the lifeless figure he had been only several hours prior – but, oh just _but –_

He didn't trust it, that was all.

" – but the street, that's not hard at all, that's _easy – _it's in the notes, all there under our noses! The notes are a taunt, that's pretty damn obvious, but they're also a _code – _I mean, what the fuck else could they be? There's no sense in obliquely insulting us, there's no _drama _in that – no, Zodiac has to be _clever_, has to dangle the evidence right under our eyes –"

Because, well, even if this was an improvement, even if it was nice to have the Mello he remembered back, Matt knew it couldn't last. It was like adrenaline or amphetamine, volcanic eruption or wildfire – sooner or later, it would have end, burn up and burn out. And then what? _And then what?_

"– see how the notes change length? They start out short and get long – three sentences, five, seven, eight – and exactly four of them, too. Substantially, there's nothing different really different about the notes – they're all the same parsed insults, the only thing they really differ in is _length. _And that's because it's not the words that are important, it's the _letters –"_

Oh, but Matt knew. Matt knew, and that was thing, because he had seen what came after, what was left when the fire had burned through – and it was nothing but ash and ash, sooty dust that slipped through fingers dead and grey.

And this was Mello. Mello, who was all fire and action and life – Mello, who had lived by fire all his life – and who, Matt feared, would die by it.

"– first letter from the first and second sentences of the first note, first from the third and fourth and sentences of the second, the fifth and sixth of the third, and do we have? C-H-U-R-C-H, church. And then you look at the seventh and eighth sentences of the fourth, and that's S-T – Church Street. 404 Church Street, Peterborough. That's where Zodiac will be."

Mello looked up, face excited and expectant, eyes shining with crusader fervor in the dim light.

And Matt looked, saw the fever light in Mello's eyes and the adrenaline in his gaze. And he asked:

"And what you are going to do now?"

And Mello smiled, the light glinting off sharp teeth.

"I'm going to find him. I'm going to find him, and I'm going to capture him, and I'm going to solve this case."

Ah, Matt thought as he sighed inwardly, and so that was that.

He'd been right, then, not to trust it.


	49. XLIX

Hannah comes over the night before they go, brings shepherd's pie and apple turnover ("honestly, how _would_ you two without me?"), criticizes the disarray in the apartment before straightening the sofa cushions herself. And in their turn, Matt and Mello respond the way they always had, guilty smiles clashing with eye-rolling indifference – the way they always had, the way things always had been.

Once in a while, though, the facade breaks, false cheer cracks: during dinner, there is a moment when Matt pauses, seems on the verge of saying something to Hannah – but then he stops, lifts fork to mouth and continues eating.

Hannah, for her part, seems not to notice too much, but then again, her cheer was just as forced as theirs. Near-suicide attempts were always that much harder to deal with when you were on the sidelines, and her words to Mello were careful, preordered – as though he were some inordinately delicate piece of glassware she could break with a glance, shatter to piece with a word.

Mello wished they weren't. But he understood, and he supposed it better, after all, that she think their awkward silences and slipped smiles nothing more than residual tension, lingering fear of _what could be._

An outdated fear, of course, especially when _what will be _was so much more terrifying.

Hannah leaves a little after nine, after helping put the dishes away and scolding Matt for his attempts to use the dishwasher ("honestly, for someone who cracks codes daily, this shouldn't be that _hard –_") before kissing him and grabbing her bag.

And then the apartment is empty, empty, and for a long time, the only sound is the whirling of the dishwasher.

Eventually, though, Matt flops down on the couch, flips on the television. Late-night news: Jackie Williams, one of the rising reporters. Lipstick, as always, immaculate as she talks about rising robbery rates, the national debt, Parliament, new developments and 0speculations in the Zodiac case –

Matt turned the TV off.

"Idiots," he says, voice too loud as he reaches for a controller with shaking hands¸ "going around and coming up with bullshit when they have no clue what's going on. Not helping anyone, the fuckers. C'mon, get over here," he said, turning to Mello, "let's play Halo or something. Good practice, right? For tomorrow–"

"Matt," Mello says, "you don't have to –"

"Oh, don't give that bullshit about _don't have to go,_" Matt snaps, whirling around to glare at Mello with wild eyes. "Because guess the fuck what, Mels? This isn't your fight; this was never just _your fight, _not even from the start. It's beenmy fight the moment you latched onto this case and decided you had to be the one to solve it, and I'm damned if I'll see my best friend with any more bullet holes in him."

Turning back to his Xbox, Matt turns it on with more force than was necessary, and begins playing.

And after several moments, Mello leaves the room, the _rat-tat-tat _of digitized gunfire echoing behind him.

* * *

The thing was –

The thing _was_ –

Ah, but that _was_ the thing, wasn't it? The thing was that there was even a thing at all – because he shouldn't have been confused; he should have been agitated and worried and scared shitless that he could (_probably_ _would) _die within the next twenty-four hours, because when you're about to face down the leader of four serial killers, you don't have time to be conflicted, don't have time for worry, should only be scared and shaking and terrified of death –

– and yet. And yet he was not. There was no fear as he thought about the possibility of his death, contemplated his body broken and slowly bleeding out, no fright, no terror, nothing. He did not want to kill himself – not now, at least, when he was so close to winning – but besides the frustration of losing to Near, he felt no emotion towards the thought of his death. It had been a risk from the beginning; he had accepted it then, and he accepted it now.

But. Butbutbut _but. _But the thing was –

– the thing was _Matt_.

Matt: his accomplice since they were young, his best friend since they had met. Matt, who could hack into any bank system in the world and yet took classes on C+; Matt who was barely twenty and who, with his goggles and consoles, looked even younger; Matt, who had a girlfriend, had an apartment, had a _life_; Matt, who still insisted that this was his fight –

In the end, it was not his death that Mello feared, but Matt's.

(Matt had been the one who had insisted on telling Hannah nothing – would be better for her, he had insisted, stop her from worrying. "Besides," he had said, "we'll be back in no time at all, she'll hardly have time to notice –")

Well. Mello hoped so. He had already taken all the precautions, adjusted and accessorized the Makarov pistols as best as he could, bought the best bulletproof jackets the blackmarket could offer, but still. Still.

There was still, after all that, one more thing he could do.

And so Mello went to the room Matt had let him store his things in, paused a moment, and then reached into the drawer and pulled it out.

Red and silver, carnelian beads dusty and silver tarnished from long disuse – but still, familiar as ever. Somewhere, between the tests and rankings, he had stopped using it; after Near had been chosen, he had stopped wearing it, but even now, months later, his hands found their place, the old, familiar Latin found its way to his lips –

_"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei –"_

And there, as he knelt on the yellowed linoleum and for the first time in months, Mello prayed.

* * *

The next day, they wake up early, eat breakfast in the dim sunlight. Matt says nothing, does not look at Mello as he chews his toast. Mello, for his part, is silent as well, eyes far away and fingers mechanically moving the beads of the rosary around his neck.

And then Mello packs the equipment into the car, and then Matt finishes his coffee, and then they leave.


	50. L

A/N: Yeah, fifty (shades of grey) **chapters**! Which means, I don't know, about 6 more to go? Which will hopefully be written soon, despite the extreme fun that are college essays. Ah, well...

Hope you enjoy, and I'll try to update soon!

* * *

They arrived. They got out. Stood there for a while, surveyed 404 Petersborough.

Matt pulls out a cigarette.

"Well," he says, reaching for a lighter, "looks like Google maps got something right."

"Shut up," Mello says, absentmindedly shoving a gun at Matt as he scowled at the building before him. A warehouse, yes, he'd known it'd been a warehouse and not a hotel, though Beyond had died in a hotel and that would have been good, that would have been fitting –

– but actually that was okay, that was good. Hotel or not, it could work; hotel or not, it could fit. And if not a hotel, then that meant –

_Aha. _

"Well?" Matt asks quietly, eyes fixed on Mello's face. "No fourth floor here. What do we do now, Mels?"

"_We _don't do anything –"

"Mels," Matt cut in, raising a hand, "save it. You're here, and I'm here, and if you're right, then so is Zodiac. It's a little late for heroics. _We _are going in there, and _we _are finding whoever the hell Zodiac is, and then _we _are going to go back before Hannah gets worried and skins me alive – so the sooner we get this over with, the better."

Mello hesitates, one short second more, but Matt's eyes are steady and stubborn.

"There'll be a basement," Mello says, "a basement or some kind of underground tunnel system. This used to be a warehouse, so it won't be hard to find, but it'll be deep – four floors, at least. There might be rooms, and if that's so, we'll look for 404, but there might not be. Either way, Zodiac'll be there."

"And then?"

"And then we find him," Mello says, "and then we capture him."

"Alright," Matt said.

And that was it. And that was all.

* * *

The warehouse is empty when they enter, the light dim and the only equipment still left broken and rusting – "looks like our serial killer isn't much into redecorating," Matt remarks, running a finger over a table and coming up with a thick layer of dust on his gloves.

Mello doesn't say anything, eyes too busy surveying the landscape before them. Broken crates, old, mildewed wood: not a very fitting place for the leader of a serial killer ring – rather clichéd, really, lacking in originality. Conspicuous, especially considering B's choice of disguise –

"Mels," Matt said, and Mello turns at it; Matt is a little over, crouched down over a patch of mildewed wood. When he sees Mello looking at him, he nods, slowly places one boot over the broken wood – and it gives, as simply and easily as though that was its purpose.

(_Ah-ha, _Mello thinks, _so that was it –_)

Matt clears away the splintered wood, and underneath – like something from a novel, a scene from a movie – is a trapdoor.

Slowly, Mello walks over, gently crouches down next to it. Stares at it a moment, then lifts it gingerly, dust floating up and spiders skittering away as he looks down.

The trapdoor was dark, the dim light penetrating a few feet before he could see nothing more – presumably a fairly deep basement, then. Four floors was more than plausible.

But –

"You know," Matt says slowly, the same thought that Mello had had slowly dawning on him, "there _were_ stairs."

"Yeah," Mello replies, brushing the boards back onto the trapdoor as he slowly stood up, "he could have. But," he adds, heading for the staircase they'd seen upon entering, "guess that wouldn't be dramatic enough."

* * *

One flight, two flight, four flights – and all the while holding the monolight they had taken from the photography department out as though it were a crucifix, a wrought-iron ikon to ward away the darkness.

Fourth floor, and still darkness; fourth floor, and no sounds, no lights, no sign that anyone was living or had ever lived here. No numbers on the doors either, no landmarks or signs of where Zodiac would be.

"Do you think," Matt whispers, glancing at Mello as they slowly advanced toward the corner, monolight still held ahead, "that maybe he isn't –"

And then the world burst into light and blinding whiteness.

Staggering back, Mello's first instinct is to reach for his gun, and – shielding his eyes with one hand, he raises it, shots it into the air: one, two bullets, directed towards the source of the light. Glass shatters; lights shut off; shards of glass fall to the ground, tiny drops of cutting rain.

In the reduced lighting, Mello lowers the gun, slowly aims it forward.

For a moment, nothing. For a moment, the only sound that of Matt's shallow breaths, the crunching glass of as Mello shifted position, stars still dancing in his eyes as he searches the darkness –

And then – slowly, softly at first – the sound of laughter.

In the quiet, Mello can hear Matt's breathing speed up, and he tightens his grip on his gun automatically, grits his teeth as he stares into the darkness.

No one in sight. No one there, only the sound of high, maniacal laughter –

– but no bullets either, no sudden rush of pain and blood. No gunshots.

Mello steps forward slowly _– "Mels," _Matt hisses, but he ignores him, continues walking forward_ –_ seconds suspended in time as he gently lowered his gun –

– but still nothing.

A deliberate move, something keeping with the megalomania and the drama? Or something more?

_Interesting._

Mello stands there for several minutes more, gun hung purposely loose at his side, and let the laughter continue.

"Well?" he asks, when the laughing had finally died down. "Is that all? I expected gloating," Mello continues, eyes raking over the walls. "You left all those notes, all those hints – and now, what? Kill us without a word? Let all that brilliance go to waste?"

Silence.

"When it's over, they won't even know," he continues, "won't remember a thing – all your anger and all his brilliance, they'll be all gone. No one will ever know, no one will ever care. Just like no one does with Beyond –"

"_But you will remember."_

"And that's what matters?"

(voice slightly rough, almost scratchy – a tone high enough to be treble, but also androgynous enough to hover at bass clef –)

"Of course it is," Zodiac replies from somewhere in the shadows, and there it was again, that slight tinge of maniac bubbling glee, "it's the only thing that does, isn't it? Because you'll know – oh, you'll know, you'll know, you'll know – and then you'll _die, _and then everything will be the way it was supposed to have been."

(_definitely _more tenor than soprano, slightly high as it still was and cracked with what was no doubt thirst and overwork – so that was who it was, all of Mello's suspicions confirmed in one tone of left only one more thing to do–)

"Oh?" he asks, no longer caring about the answer, only interested in the words. "And that'd be good? That'd be revenge? What, let us die without a little fear? A little trembling –"

"_I could kill you right now."_

_ ("Mels," _Matt hisses, _"are you a fucking idiot–")_

"Oh?" Lowered gun, deliberately relaxed stance.

"_It would be so easy," _Zodiac says, and his voice is gentle, soft as a mother's words and almost sad, "_so easy. So many ways to do it – and all at a flick of a hand, a word from me –" _

(_a little left – no, not there, perhaps a little more to the right – no, no, but not quite –)_

He could almost tell. Almost, but not quite – but perhaps if he, yes if indeed he did –

Slowly, Mello closes his eyes.

And there he was_._

_ " – isn't that so, _Mihael Keehl?"

Mello's eyes flew open –

And a bullet rent open the night.


	51. LI

The next moments happen in free-fall – one after another, moments sliding weightlessly into one another. Blink, and you miss it.

_Blink, _and a body – Zodiac, some part of Mello's brain tells him, a shock of wild hair and protruding collarbones – falls from high, high above (_a falling star, a falling angel –_ _lucifer: light bringer, luminous), _and in one glance all of Mello's theories are confirmed.

_Blink, _and Mello sees the red on the ground, sees the red staining collarbone, shirt, ground.

_Blink, _and suddenly there is Matt – breathing hard, eyes wide behind his goggles, the handgun somehow suddenly large in his hands. With his red shirt and ridiculous orange goggles and blue eyes large from adrenaline, looking so, so much younger.

For a moment, time stops.

And then suddenly Matt is striding forward, gun in his hand and a snarl on his face, and Mello wants to say something about evidence and the importance of witness testimony –

But then, _blink, _and Matt is gone, and there is fire in his eyes and a gun in his hands.

He doesn't say anything, just catches the figure in front of him with a vicious kick in the ribs.

"You _motherfucker," _he hisses, and kicksagain, hard. "You fucking," ribs, "bastard," stomach, "son of a goddamn," ribs again, "_bitch –"_

Something _crunches _as Matt kicks out again, and with a jolt, time starts again.

"Matt!" Mello shouts, and already he is running forward, already he is pulling Matt off –

"Goddamnit Mello, _fuck off,_" Matt snarls, all flailing limbs as he struggles against Mello's grip, but Mello holds on, pulls Matt away and holds him still. Holds him until Matt suddenly goes limp, all the fight gone out of him as suddenly as it had come. And then all that is left is Matt again, breathing shallowed by smoker's lungs, the anger in his eyes replaced by a kind of weariness.

Slowly, carefully, Mello lets him go. Matt stumbles a bit, then rights himself.

"You okay?" Mello asks, words quiet, careful.

"Yeah," Matt says, not meeting Mello's eyes as he shoves his hands into his pockets. "Yeah." Then, hands still shaking slightly as he lights a cigarette, "thanks."

"No problem." Mello tries to smile, briefly, but it slips off, oil on canvas, and his gaze turns once again to the prone figureon the ground.

Zodiac lies before them, a pale, bloody figure in a white shirt that hangs loosely on a frame that is almost skeletal. His breathing is ragged – broken rib, Mello would guess, and doesn't _he _know what that's like – and from the angle of his fall and his silence during Matt's beating, there is probably a concussion in the mix as well. And for a moment – though Mello knows that he has killed, has murdered brothers fathers lovers, his own _parents, _for God's sake – for a moment, as he lies there amidst the broken glass in the flickering light, he is almost pathetic, this man, this boy who has killed dozens. Lying now, bloody, broken.

It was, in a way, almost pitiful. Preparation upon preparation, plot upon plot, hopes and dreams and goals painstakingly constructed so that every detail was in place – all undone in an instant, a single effortless shot and a single bullet. In the end, Zeno Barnes had never stood a chance – he was good, yes, but not good enough; smart, yes, but not smart enough. In the end, it had always had been suspect, too _messy _andtoo _simple – _circles and connections not intricate enough, the puzzles within puzzles not challenging enough.

In the end, he had been a worthy opponent – but in the end, he had not been Wammy material.

"So that's it?" Matt asks, watching Mello (_even now, scared and shaken and barely held together by nicotine and rituals – and still watches)_ as he stands over Zeno. "So it's over now? We call police, call L? Go home heroes? Just like that?"

Just like that?

And it would have been nice, would have been good and easy and nice, very, very nice –

But. Butbutbutbut_but._

Something was off. Something didn't fit. Something was _wrong._

"Mels! What the hell are you doing?"

But Mello ignores him. Slowly, warily, leans down, gingerly feels the body in front of him. Explosives would have been difficult to hide under that shirt, and even if they were there, they would have probably been triggered by the fall – but there was the possibility of rigged bombs, too, timed to go off at a certain time _(ten, nine, eight –)_

Nothing in his pockets. Nothing strapped to his chest – but hold on, there _was _something there, slim and light –

Slowly, seconds frozen as they moved through spacetime, Mello reached one hand under the shirt and pulled out –

A notebook. Small, simple, black – doubtless full of important evidence, but still – _a notebook._

Just a notebook.

For one, absurd moment, Mello wanted to laugh, wanted to double up and just fall down _laughing, _the relief was so great – after all this _time, _after _everything –_

And then someone laughed, a harsh, raucous thing, and Mello looked up –

And the notebook slipped between his fingers.


	52. LII

_He was going crazy._

That's the first thing Mello thinks, and for a moment, the panic is paralyzing – after all this time, all his efforts and plans, after _all of it –_

"Mels?"

– after everything, to end like this, after being shot and shot and nearly killed but still surviving, still alive after criminals and serial killers and his own brain had tried to kill him, after all _that, _to go like this, last bits of sanity finally breaking after he had done it, after he had finally, finally won –

"Mello! Mello, are you okay? What the hell happened?"

It's Matt, and the panic in his voice is enough to cause Mello to look away, see Matt's frantic face as he shakes Mello by the shoulders –

And all the while, the laughter echoes in the distance.

"Mello? Hey, Mels? Mello? Mello! Snap out of –"

And then Matt's foot brushes against the notebook, and suddenly his breath hitches.

Slowly, slowly, Matt turns around –

And in the scream that follows, everything shifts.

Matt had seen it, too. And so there were two options now.

One: they were both going insane. Folie à deux was not a common phenomenon, but it did exist, and so it was a possibility –

But madness took time to build, and in the space of the two minutes that had passed between Mello's vision and Matt's, there had been no time for transmission, no time for imposition by the primary partner.

And that left the second option.

(because once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains –)

Two: he was not insane. He was _not insane. _And so the thing – and so the monster before him, it was – it was –

_Real._

And Mello should have been scared, and he was – scared because this was true, this was real, demons were real and standing before him, all gangly limbs and sharp teeth and so much realer than they had been in Bible stories – should have been scared, because this was a _demon, _a demon and hell and so much more fearsome than the possibility of insanity –

But through the fear, there was a sort of odd, fire-forged calm.

For demons were real, then angels had to be as well. And somehow, for Mello – sinner though he was, liar and self-server with a soul sooty and black – this was easier.

So through the fear, he calls out,

"Who are you?"

And for a moment, the demon stopped chuckling – paused, confusion in bulbous dark eyes. For a moment, tilted its head to stare at Mello, claw-like hand half-way up to jagged mouth.

And for a moment, the world stood still.

And then it laughs, a harsh, jagged sound that echoed off the walls.

"Who am I?" it asks, grinning as it leers at Mello. "Who am _I?" _

–and _I, I, I _echoes off the walls, the lights flickering, the specter loaming in front of him with a smile of sharp, long teeth –

"Yes," Mello says, not blinking as he stares at the figure, the rosary around his neck suddenly much heavier, "I asked who you are."

It blinks. Stares at Mello for one long second. And then, slowly, smiles again – a wide, hungry grin.

"My, _my," _it says, "aren't you _interesting. _My name is Ryuk," it says, extending a claw towards him, "and I'm a god of death."

Mello says nothing.

"_Well?" _it asks, leaning in towards him. "Aren't you _scared_?"

"And why should I be?"

(_for the lord is my shepherd and he leads me through the valley of death –)_

It blinks.

And then, suddenly, changed – leaned back, posture suddenly became slacked. Was still smiling, still all sharp teeth and angles, but there was an indolence in its movements now, a lack of menace transformed into lethargy.

"Aw, _man," _it says, voice suddenly incongruously petulant, "it worked with all the other ones."

Mello blinks.

"All the...other ones?"

"Yeah," it – Ryuk – continues, idly staring at its claws. "They all used to get pretty jumpy when I started with the death god stuff – well, almost all of them," it (he?) says, nodding at Zeno, prone and bloodied on the concrete, "but he was pretty interesting anyway. Though, tell the truth, he was getting a kind of boring, so maybe it's better he's gone –"

"Gone?"

"Well, almost gone," Ryuk concedes, shrugging, "but just about good as dead anyways. Technically, I'm supposed to do it – but I mean, come on. At this point, it just seems like a bother –"

"You're going to kill him?" Matt asks, eyes horrified behind his goggles.

"I'm _supposed _to," Ryuk says, "part of the whole god of death deal. Although," he adds, pale eyes brightening, "maybe you could do it for me – save me a little trouble. See that notebook?" he asks, pointing at the black notebook at Mello's feet. "All you'd have to do is write his name in there – it's a Death Note, what we gods use, if you're wondering. Zeno Barnes – _Z, _not X. Don't even need a pen on you, either, I'll lend you mine," Ryuk says, proffering one from the belt around his waist. "Not like it's going to matter anyways," Ryuk shrugs, "but who knows...could be interesting."

And he grins at Mello.

For a moment, they looked at each other. For a moment, eyes met: tawny yellow and icy blue, flat gold and steely sapphire. Mortal and god, sinner and demon.

For a moment, Mello's eyes flitted to the notebook at his feet.

And then Matt whispered, "_Mels,"_ voice rough with worry and fear, and the moment passes.

"No," Mello says, staring up at Ryuk, "thanks, but no."

"Oh?" Ryuk asks, tone surprised as he tilts his head on its side. "Ah, well, worth a shot," he says, recovering with a shrug, "might have started something interesting, who knows. Looks like I'll have to do it then, after all –"

"No."

"Hm?"

_"No," _Mello repeats, standing up, "you're not going to," stepping towards Ryuk, boots click-click-clacking on concrete, "kill him." Pale blue eyes meeting pale yellow ones – and then, in one quick motion, a hand reaching forward, snatching the paper from under the death god's eyes.

"I'm not," Mello says, keeping his eyes on Ryuk's as he steps back, notebook in his hand, "going to let you."

For a moment, silence – and in the silence, every beat of Mello's heart magnified, every second an eternity. The blood in his veins suddenly a reality, every breath imbued with a hyperawareness.

And then Ryuk chuckles, and then he smiles, stares with a wide grin and sharp teeth at Mello.

"Well, well," he says, voice somehow satisfied, "you really are interesting, aren't you?"

Mello does not respond – only stands there, clutches the notebook a little harder to his chest in defiance.

"Alright then," Ryuk says, shrugging, "I won't kill him. I could take that notebook and kill you, of course," he says, "but I won't – that'd be boring, and you've already been _so _interesting. So I'll let him live – not," he adds, "that he has much time to live for."

He grins, and for a moment in the dim light, his teeth and eyes are the only things visible.

And then he turns, black wings spreading like bat's wings, and then suddenly he is gone.

Mello stares at the spot where Ryuk was for a long, long moment.

And then he turns around, and walks back to Matt and Zeno.

"Mello –"

"Bandages," Mello says, not looking at Matt, "use his shirt or something – we're going to need him to testify, so we're going to need him alive. I'll call an ambulance, but he's not going to survive if we don't patch him up first. I'll need a phone," Mello says, and Matt complies, pulls his out and silently hands it to Mello, "and a lighter."

And Matt nods, hands over the lighter without question.

And together, as Mello dials numbers and Matt bandages Zeno, they watch the notebook burn.

* * *

A/N:

"The lord is my shepherd" line totally yanked from the Bible (for those who don't know ^^;)

Aaand yay, just a few chapters left for this story! Not sure whether to be happy or sad about this...


	53. LIII

They manage to stabilize Zeno and move him upstairs when the ambulance arrives.

At first, the medic is a bit confused, the sight of two twenty-year-olds with guns and dusty bullet-proof vests carrying another bloodied boy apparently something she felt a matter of suspicion, and at first she looks at them askew, is about to call the police despite their forged police badges and the _fucking boy bleeding to death in front of her_–

When, of course, the police arrive anyways.

Or, at least, one of them.

Jean's hair is ruffled and her makeup has the sloppy quality of someone who is used to waking long past noon, but she is in uniform, looks decidedly older than Mello, and – what is more – apparently knows the medic.

Quite well, in fact.

"Yeah, yeah," Jean sighs, running a hand through her hair, "it's good to see you too, Sally. Yeah, I know it's been a while – sorry for not calling, I've been busy. I've missed you too, okay? – but look, there's a patient here, and he's kind of important for this case we're working on, so I'd kind of feel better if you got him to the hospital before we made dinner plans? Yes, I promise I'll call right after. Yes, I love you too and I'll see you soon, okay?

"And that, boys," Jean sighs as the ambulance speeds into the distance, "is why you _should never _take ten shots of vodka in a night. Alcohol, you know," she says, "does strange things to a person – talk to people you normally wouldn't, do things you usually won't. End up sleeping with the wrong people, sometime. Not that Sal isn't nice – plenty nice, that's probably why I agreed to it in the first place – but clingy, you know. Not my type."

She glances at Mello and Matt, sees neither of them are laughing, and sighs.

"So, that was Zodiac, huh?" she asks. "Well, congrats, I guess – doing what you should have left to the police, but didn't. Good for you, though. Congratulations on not getting killed –"

"We just," Mello says, glaring at Jean as he supports Matt, "caught the criminal you've been searching for months for."

"Well, yeah, there's that, too," Jean concedes, "though technically, I'm not supposed to encourage that kind of stuff – since you're, you know, still strictly civilian. Should be leaving this stuff to the police, technically, and not going all vigilant instead – that's their job, you know? Protect the people, so's the people can do other things instead. Nice day like this out," she says, gazing out at the sky, "should be doing lots of those other things, not stuck indoors like this, hunting a mass murderer."

"And let Zodiac keep on killing people?"

"Hon, look around you. London – hundred people killed a year. New York, five hundred. Developing countries are worse – have a few friends in Caracas, and they tell me it's a _nightmare._ Somewhere, in Oxford, some poor sod is getting shivved in an alley, and what's going to happen then, hmm? People are _always _killing people. You can't save them all. You can try, sure – but sooner or later, you have to stop. Go home, have a drink.

"What I'm saying," Jean says, sighing at Mello's unchanged expression, "is the both of you ought to get home before someone – oh, say, a pretty girl with a lot on her plate and too much sense to be dealing with you idiots – starts worrying. Life isn't all knights and heroes, hon, and once the fighting's done, you've got to have something to come back to."

Mello glares at her, is about to retort with something harsh and sarcastic –

But then, on second thought, stops.

It had been a long day, after all, and even if there had been longer days, high on coffee and chocolate and adrenaline, the stress of the day was already starting to make itself felt – and if not outwardly so on Mello, at least on Matt.

So, empathetically ignoring Jean's exasperated laugh at his caustic glare, Mello puts the key in the engine and, with Matt in the backseat, drives back to Oxford.

* * *

"What the _fucking hell _did you think you were doing?"

Ah. Right.

Mello had, of course, anticipated something like this – and since he had, of course, anticipated something like this, he'd been prepared to deal with it the exact same way he had before: namely, by letting Matt deal with it.

"And where the _hell _do you think you're going?"

He hadn't, however, factored in the possibility that Hannah would be furious at _him._

It was odd, Mello thought – here on the one side were Sully Sanders and Zeno and Ryuk, demons and monsters and men, gods of death and death itself – and he had hardly flinched at facing them, hardly been affected.

And on the other hand, here was Hannah: half a foot shorter than Matt and probably barely eight stone, yet somehow she managed, despite all her lack of physical stature, to be easily the most terrifying thing Mello had encountered all day.

"And you_," _Hannah says, glaring at Mello, "you _knew _about this – you _knew _I'd be worried to hell and back while you guys went to play hero, facing mass murderers while what? I sit back at home, nice and safe –"

"Hang on," Matt says, snapping out of his contrition to turn to Hannah, "are you telling me he,"pointing to Mello, "_told_ you what we were doing?"

"Of course not," Hannah scoffs, "I figured it out myself. Mysterious absences, five newspapers on your door each time I visited, unexplained gunshot wounds in the middle of the week – it was obvious enough. And the next time you're trying for secrecy? _Clear your internet history_. But, anyways –"

"And you didn't _tell _me?" Matt asks, whirling to Hannah. "You knew she knew about it, but you didn't _tell _me?"

"And why should he have? It was none of your –"

"She could have been hurt!" Matt says, ignoring Hannah in favor of gesticulating wildly at Mello. "Someone could have found out and used her as bait, or she could have followed us –"

"Excuse me," Hannah says, flushing as she places herself between Mello and Matt, "but I seem to recall that _she _is standing right here. So if you've got something to say to me, Matt, you should say it to my face – you can't just go off and charge after a serial killer without telling me. I can take care of myself, you know –"

"It doesn't _matter!" _Matt says, waving his hands in the air. "You might have been _hurt, _you might have been _killed – _this way, at least, you were protected, you were _safe –_"

Hannah hit him.

Not a light, half-hearted punch, either – a proper, serious blow. Stance a little clumsy, yes, but otherwise a pitch-perfect punch.

And then – as Matt staggered back, goggles askew and lip split – she kissed him.

"You idiot," she breathes when her lips leave his, "don't _ever _dothat again. I am _more _than capable of taking care of myself, so don't you _dare_ keep me in the dark like that again."

"Mmfg," is all Matt has time to reply, before Hannah kisses him again – this time, harder, deeper.

Which was, Mello decided, his cue to leave.

And so he did, eyes averted and headphones hastily stuck into ears, Zeno's notebook a solid weight beneath his jacket.

* * *

Seven stone = roughly 112 pounds. Technically, I think I should have used cm for height, too, but well, Americanisms - 15 cm just doesn't sound as good to my (American) ears as 6 in ^^;


	54. LIV

The next few days pass in a daze.

There are, of course, the news reports, the headlines and flashbulb blurs on local and national news, but those pass beyond them, away from them. Officially, the capture is attributed to the Bradford police – "with the help of L, of course," Jean says on national television as Felice, her statements backed by Wammy's (Watari's) silent nods – and though Mello knows that that means L will come soon, come to take the culprit and successor who had found him (they couldn't have missed it, Zeno will wake soon, Zeno will talk, and besides L is L, he will know), the days until are quiet, calm.

Each morning, the sun rises, and each morning, Mello gets out of bed – early, from routine and not necessity – makes himself a cup of coffee. Sips it in the pink dawn-light, watching the sun rise as he spreads copious amounts of Nutella on organic toast harder than rock.

Each morning, Matt wakes up, tousled-haired and groggy, mumbles a half-hearted hello to Mello as he grabs a coffee and makes a face at toast ("Hannah?" "Hannah.") before sitting down to breakfast. And they sit there, for a while, in silence.

And then the clock ticks, and then Matt leaves, and then Mello has the rest of the days to himself.

He reads, a lot. Matt's supply of books exhausted, Mello borrows (steals) Matt's library card, checks out Rosetta stone and forensic textbooks (had to be busy, after all, had to be prepared and you didn't know when something would be needed), but also lit magazines, words smudged on flimsy newsprint, Bulgakov novels and Beckett plays. Sometimes, he goes to range to practice (mustn't get rusty, mustn't be unprepared), and though he still talks to no one, sometimes he stays a little after to listen to their conversations. Once, he goes to the local cathedral, but the lights are too bright, the worshipers all middle-aged and loud, and so he leaves, casting a last glance at the icons before closing the door.

But there is a Bible in his room now, and he is praying again – for he had seen the demons, and now could not go back.

Nights, and Hannah comes over, still testy with Matt but not enough so to let her math grades suffer. He tutors her, explaining concepts they'd covered years ago at Wammy's, Hannah nodding thoughtfully from time to time. Personally, Mello thinks she took an inordinate amount of time to understand, but Matt doesn't seem to mind, guides her towards the correct answer with quiet patience.

Some nights, though, Hannah comes over with nothing but DVDs and her popcorn machine, and so they curl up on the couch under thick blankets ("you too!" Hannah says, all-but-dragging a reluctant Mello along), film noir movies or the latest Doctor Who playing as they ate their way through cinnamon sugar popcorn. For all the world, like normal college students, with nothing to do and no cares in the world beside schoolwork.

And in the morning, the sun would rise again. And in the morning, the day would begin again.

* * *

Except one day, when everything shifts.

Because that day, when Mello gets back from the library, there are two men in black suits there.

And of course there were. And of course there would have been – it was, after all, completely natural.

And so Mello is not surprised, does not blink as they tell him about L's request for his company, though he cannot help but sigh inwardly at the private drivers and MI6 escort. A healthy sense of drama was one thing, but really, that was going a little _too _far.

"Alright," he says half-way through the second officer's explanation, "I understand. I'll come" (as if there had ever been any question that he wouldn't). "But," he adds, looking in the man's eyes, "in two days. I need to pack."

"There is no need –"

"Two days," Mello repeats, slower this time. "To pack."

"Surely it won't take you – "

"Two," raising two fingers, "days."

And with that, he closed the door.

* * *

"We're meeting _L?" _

"For the last time, _yes."_

"I know, I know," Matt says, seemingly oblivious to the annoyance in Mello's voice, "but – _L? The _L?"

"Who the fuck else would I be referring to?"

"Yeah, but still – _L? _Just – fuck, oh my God, you know how ridiculous this _is? _I'm meeting him – L – the guy we'd basically worshipped as a kid – and as like, an actual person, not a letter on a screen – I mean, I know he was an actual person, you told me when Wammy had the successor's meeting, but still –"

"You really won't shut up about this, will you?"

" – it's just – God! I mean, you wouldn't know because you've already been there, but oh my God, this is just –"

Rolling his eyes, Mello gives up. There is a smile on his face, though, and faint as it is, it is still a smile.

(because this time, he would be ready. Because this time, it would be different –)

* * *

Bulgakov is a Soviet vaguely surrealist/magical realist writer, while Beckett is an...interesting postmodern playwright.

MI6 - the British secret service


	55. LV

"You're leaving."

Hannah's voice is deadpan as she says it, unbelieving.

"Look, Hannah," Matt says, wrapping his arms around her neck, "it's not what –"

"_You're," _Hannah says, slowly turning around to face him,_ "leaving."_

"Well," Matt begins, then sighs, "I mean, yeah, but –"

"But _what?" _Hannah asks, slamming her hands down on the table. "But _what, _goddamnit!_"_

"Hannah," Matt says, "look, it's really noth – it's for the case, okay? There are all these official people, government guys, it's all incredibly bureaucratic, and I'm just not sure they'd let someone unrelated come along, alright? That's all. It'll be a quick trip, though, don't worry –"

"I'm coming," Hannah says.

"Hannah," Matt says, looking pleadingly over to Mello; Mello shrugs, takes a bite of his chocolate as he contemplates his cards, "look, it's not like I don't want you to come, it's just –"

"I'm _coming," _Hannah repeats, meeting Matt's eyes. "You've spent the last few months going to places and coming back nearly dead, so don't you _dare _think I'm going to be nice and sweet and stay home while you spout some 'official trip' crap and think I'll buy it."

"Hannah," Matt begins again, then stops, sighs. "Alright – not _alright _as in you are definitely coming, because I said it before, and it's true, I really _can't _control these things – but alright, as in, okay, we'll see. But you're not talking to me, you're talking to the guys planning this trip, okay? I don't decide this; they do."

"Oh, don't worry," Hannah says, still glowering slightly as she places down her hand, "I _will."_

* * *

And she does - and, surprisingly enough, it works.

The MI6 agents come the next day, in all their dark sunglasses and black ties, stand imperious and looming in the doorway for long moments–

"Hello," Hannah says, all brightness and sunny smiles as she opens the door, "are you looking for anyone?"

There is a pause, a subtle stopping as the two men reassess their position.

"As a matter of fact," the taller agent says after a while, "we are. Two young men – a blonde and a redhead –"

"Oh, that'd be my boyfriend, then!" Hannah exclaims. "I think he's still out, buying something instead of, you know, actually packing – men, you know," she sighs, swinging the door open – several feet away and behind closed doors, Matt mouths "men?" at Mello, "but do come on in! I'm sure he'll be by in a minute – in the meanwhile, though, I've got _my _bags packed, so I might as well get those –"

The men exchange a glance.

"Excuse me, Miss," one of them says, "I'm not quite sure you understand – this is very important business, on very classified material."

"Hm?" Hannah asks, turning. "Oh, yes. Matt told me about that, yeah – I think yesterday, was it? _What _a charmer, that one, giving a girl barely twenty-four hours to pack – well?" she asks, turning around. "When are we leaving, then?"

Dead silence follows her words.

"Look," Hannah says, sighing as she dropped the banter, "I understand what you're going to say and I understand why you're going to say it, alright? But, please, think of it this way: he's my boyfriend, and he's been nearly killed several times in the past few months. I can't just let him waltz anywhere he wants without feeling a little nervous, okay?"

She waits, eagerly expectant, for a moment.

"Or," she continues, when no answer is forthcoming, "you could think of it this way: of the two crucial witnesses for your case, one of them happens to be my boyfriend and the other quite a good friend of mine. And if I'm not coming, you can be sure as hell neither of them are."

Which, Mello knew, was complete bluffing on her part – after all these years fighting for this position, fighting for this chance, there was _no way in hell_ he would give this meeting up so easily –

(and what about that other part, that ridiculous, hyperbolic line about being "quite a good friend of mine" when they had hardly known each other for six months – what, exactly, had _that _been about?)

Nonetheless, it was audacious, and he could admire that.

And, apparently, the agents believed it – because in a few hours, they are all crammed in the back of a black car ("middle seat? Why do _I _get the middle seat?" "Because your skinny ass got in second, genius – God, what are you, twelve, Matt?") the two men in front silent as they drive away.

* * *

"Hey," Matt says halfway through the drive, turning to Mello and putting a hand on his shoulder, "everything's going to be fine, Mels. Promise."

"I know that," Mello says, staring out the window as he shrugs Matt's hand off, "why the fuck _wouldn't _it?"

In the corner of his eye, Mello sees Hannah roll her eyes, hears her mutter something under her breath about "men" with what is possibly more nerves than exasperation in her voice, but he chooses to ignore that.

* * *

The drive is a short one, and in less than an hour, they are there: the parking lot outside an old house on a high hill, a lone grassy knoll in a landscape of streets. Winchester, England. Wammy's House.

"So this is it?" Hannah asks, peering out at the old, gothic building as she steps out of the car. "Pretty place. Lots of trees and land – must have been nice growing up here with all that."

"You could say that," Matt says quietly.

Mello says nothing, too busy slowly gazing around him. The same trees, the same flowers by the front – but of course, it had been barely months since he'd last been here. Stood here. Well.

Matt is silent, but Mello can tell that he, too, is surveying the landscape around them – the trees, the grass, the portraits on the walls as they walk inside the house. Mello wonders, for a moment, if it was as surreal for Matt as it was for him – coming back here, after all those years of trying to escape a place and a label he had never wanted in the first place.

Probably not, Mello concluded, as they turned a corner. The last time Matt had been at Wammy's, he hadn't tried to kill himself.

"So this is supposed to be an orphanage, right?" Hannah asks, hands folded behind her back as they tap-tap-tapped down the hall. "Awfully quiet, then – aren't there supposed to be, well, kids here?"

"There are," Roger says, walking towards them from seemingly nowhere (and instantly Mello can feel his posture straightening, every out-of-place hair seeming to stand starkly out). "Generally around this time, they should be in classes or studying – not, of course, that there won't invariably be some trying to see what all the excitement is about," he says, pale eyes seeming to skim for a brief moment over Mello and Matt, both of whom could not help but reflexively cringe a little. "My name is Roger Ruvie," he continued, as he offers a hand to Hannah, "and I am the director of this orphanage."

"Hannah Mitchells," she replies, just a hint of wariness in her stance as she takes his hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

"And you as well, Miss Mitchells," Roger says, smiling as he takes a step back. "Now, from what I have heard, you have insisted on accompanying my protégés here – a perfectly reasonable request, seeing as I am informed you are in a relationship with one of them," glancing briefly at Matt, who blushed slightly under his former caretaker's gaze. "Unfortunately, procedure does not allow non-graduates to meet the men who have flown over for the occasion – rarely even graduates, to be honest. If you want, you can wait here, or we can call for one of the children to lead you around the House –"

"I'll wait," Hannah says, hand tightening slightly around Matt's as she stood there. And there was something about the immediacy of her response, something about the surety and steadiness of her response that makes Mello blink suddenly, makes Mello think of Matt.

And Roger nods, seems to accept that as he turns to Mello and Matt.

"Alright then," he says, voice crisp and efficient once again, the same voice that had pervaded a childhood's worth of lost memories, "follow me, boys."

* * *

Notes: slight change from last chapter! Apparently, I screwed up my geography majorly and was planning to have a private jet go from Oxford to Winchester – which happen to be an hour apart. Ha. No. Now retroactively corrected and this non-UK citizen properly enlightened for less embarrassment.


	56. LVI: Fin

It's a dimly-lit, sparsely furnished room: with only two chairs and a table, Mello and Matt have no choice but to stand, waiting for the room's occupants – an well-dressed older man in a black hat, a white-haired boy sprawled out on the grounds with a white puzzle, and last but certainly no less important for his inconspicuousness, a thin figure hunched over a computer – to acknowledge them.

Mello watches Matt, sees him blink a little as process of elimination kicks in, and can't blame him – Mello had, after all, reacted similarly when the hunching man with disheveled hair and a sleepy eyes had first introduced himself as the world's greatest detective – but other than that, Matt shows no signs of surprise. Wammy conditioning, Mello thinks, old mindsets returning in places of origination.

Watari is the first to break the silence, stands up as he smiles and walks towards them. "Mello, Matt," he says, clapping them on the shoulder, "it's good to see you two again."

"You as well, sir," Matt says, words warm but rote and smile stiff.

Behind Watari, L says nothing, only continues typing without any sign of noticing them.

"Ah, apologies for that," Watari says, noticing Mello's eyes on L, "even though the case is essentially closed, there are still plenty of legalities to deal with – the press will want a trial, and the police aren't quite fond of some of our actions, and well, there's been quite a lot of fallout to deal with –"

"Not entirely accurate," L says without turning around. "While it's true that we're still collecting the final data on the Zodiac case, that's not the matter on hand. This," he said, punching a key, causing the printer nearby to _whir-whir _into motion, "is."

"Here," L says, turning around and handing Mello the paper, still-warm. "This is your contract. Watari and I were impressed by your work in the Zodiac case," he continues, turning back to his computer. "Hence, although it was not written into the original plans, we've decided to offer you a position in dual successorship. On," L adds, not seeming to notice Mello's sharp intake of breath at the word 'dual,' the way his eyes dart to the white-haired boy on the ground, "two conditions."

"First," L says, fingers click-clacking as he talks, "despite former difficulties, you will cooperate with Near. Roger has informed me of your mutual history, so cordial relations can be suspended for now – however, at least in terms of cases, you will be required to work without animosity. Personal feelings notwithstanding, this will provide you with a number of technical advantages – access to the same databases, for one thing."

And though the words are in the same monotone as before, there's something in the casualness of the remark, the glancing manner in which he mentions it that makes Mello start, glance again at the detective hunched in the chair.

"What about data – how did you – you _knew –_"

"Of course we knew you were hacking in," L says, expression unchanging as he reached for a cup of coffee. "The old security measures were still formidable, granted," he says, dropping four or five sugar cubes into the mug, "but it's hardly as though we would allow our systems to be so easily breached."

Taking a sip, L adds another couple of sugar cubes, then continues.

"Second," he says, stirring his coffee, "there will be the necessary medical procedures. You will continue to take – or, if you've stopped, will recommence taking – the medicine you've been prescribed. Yes, we knew about that as well. Hospitals keep diligent records, even if they are for aliases. In addition," L adds, taking another experimental sip of his coffee, frowning, and then dropping in another two sugar cubes, "if it is necessary, a psychiatrist will be prescribed –"

"Only if necessary, of course," Watari says quickly, more attuned to the growing anger in Mello's eyes than his protégé. "It's no less than what we would do for any other ward of the House, under similar situations. Your safety and happiness are, after all, our highest priorities."

"Oh?" Mello asks. "Is that so."

"Naturally," L says, reflexively biting as his thumb as he types another few words. "Hence, both perfectly reasonable stipulations." He takes another sip of his coffee, then nods, and puts the mug down as he returns to typing.

"That's an awfully preemptive thing to assume," Mello says, eyes narrowing and voice deadly quiet as he looks at the assembled men, "for someone who hasn't even accepted your offer yet."

"Mels–?"

"That possibility was considered," L concedes, nodding slightly but showing no other sign of reaction, "but seeing as the chances of that were deemed under three percent, the possibility that you will accept is still vastly greater."

"At least think about," Watari adds, smiling pleadingly at Mello. "I know it's a large decision and that this is very sudden – the shock of the moment, of course – but please, do think about the idea –"

"And what if I just walked away – right here, right now?"

"You won't," Near says, speaking for the first time from his place on the ground. "Even if you were to leave the building," he said, clicking two pieces into place, "the lack of convenient public transportation means you would still be confined to House grounds."

For several, long moments, silence –

"Well," Mello says, smile all jagged teeth and cold eyes, "guess that means it's time I prove all your fucking probabilities wrong, then."

"Mello," Watari says, voice cajoling, "I know you may be angry, and you're right to be, but please don't just –"

"Oh, don't worry, I'll _think_ about it, if that's what you want," Mello says, not turning around, "think about you and your fucking offer and what a fucking sucker you've taken me for to think I'd agree. And don't worry," he says bitterly, "your precious albino freak's right, it's not like I can go anywhere, so there's no need to worry about _this_ piece of collateral running off and trying to put a gun through his head again."

"Now, Mello," and dimly, he registers that it's Roger this time, always-composed voice cracking as he shouted after him, "you know that's isn't how we –"

But he doesn't listen to any of them, not Matt or Roger or Watari and _certainly _not L (if, that is, he had said anything – which he doesn't, only sits there looking at Mello with black eyes as expressionless and bad as Near's), only walks out of the room and, ignoring Hannah's cries of confusion, out of the House.

* * *

He had intended, of course, to rip the paper up and walk away – not where, he had not planned that far, had only known that he was _angry, _indignant and outraged so furious his hands shook – no, destination had never been the goal, only _away, _far, far away, and all the fucking _better – _

And yet. Yet, once he was out of the House, standing there in the cold air and bright sun, the anger suddenly dissipated and Mello suddenly realized, with a sense of dull emptiness like aftermath of an adrenaline rush, that there, really, was nowhere to go. He hadn't a car; they were too far from a city for taxis to be close by; and even if had attempted it, what he had done so many months before, there were hospitals close by and the House staff would surely be on alert –

And, besides, he couldn't. Not with Matt and Hannah to think of.

So, in the end – with no place to run, nowhere to _go, _just as the little albino freak had said_ – _he ends up in an abandoned tunnel, one of his and Matt's old hideouts, and does what he had told Watari and L he would do: he thinks.

He thinks on a lot of things. There is, of course, the burning indignity of it all – the fact that they had _known, _had been helping him _all along_, had probably even _pitied _him –

And L. L, whom he had never seen but once before, but who had stood in his memories as a sort of God, a fabled idol whose favor he had fought fifteen long years to be granted – and yet who, when he had given it, had done so with no more expression than before, no more than cursory congratulations –

("_Watari and I were impressed –")_

Impressed? Impressed, after all that, when Mello had bled and nearly _died _for him, had devoted his mind and whole life to completing the labors the House had set before him – and after all that, _after all that, _all L was, was _impressed –_

And Mello wants to scream at it, to hit and break and fucking _hurt _someone for it – but more than anything, once the anger passes, he wants to curl up somewhere warm and cry.

He understands, suddenly then, the urge that all drawn the other students to leave this place behind – Linda with art school and France, Matt with Oxford and Hannah, A with a note and a rope around his neck – all of them had been so much wiser, so much more _intelligent _than he (_second, second-in-line and always second best) _had been, had seen through the light show into the blankness behind this place, and had chosen to leave its castles of sand –

And yet. Yet here it was, all again, the place it had all begun, with all the main players up lined up for third act: two caskets for A and B, a throne for N, and God-knows-what for M and Matt. The final act: inescapable, in the end.

But he could stay here now. He could stay here, have, if not everything, then at least the majority of what he had wanted as a child – successorship even if it was only halfway, but still something, acknowledgement even if it came in brush-away bursts and automated moments –

He thinks of a life like that, spent waiting, always searching for what breadcrumbs of praise he could find (his life thus far, and for so very _very _long). He thinks of Near; he thinks of L, of cold, cold lives spent in whiteness and faded computer lights, and shakes his head. No, not quite. Not that.

And yet. Yet, somehow, he couldn't quite find it in himself to leave, either – force of habit and force of instinct, the House, as always, drawing him back –

* * *

"It's cold out," L says. He stands before Mello, slouched slightly, face illuminated by a flashlight held loosely in one hand. "You should come inside."

"You're not exactly dressed for the weather, either."

L shrugs, not denying the allegation.

"It isn't my health I'm concerned about," he says, unperturbed as he continues standing there.

Mello says nothing for a while, only stays there for a while, scrutinizing L in the faint yellow lights.

"Did Matt tell you where I was, then?" he asks finally, not moving from his place.

"Berated us for half an hour on deliberate callousness and calculated exploitation, then stalked off once he realized you were safe. Security cameras," L says, nodding at the ceiling of the tunnel. "Roger installed them after Rita and James were found using psychedelics here last year."

_ Rita and James_...two of the older kids, Mello thinks, brown hair and freckles and an eagerness to follow him and Matt around like they were mother hens (he _knew _he should have discouraged that sooner) –

"It wasn't deliberate, however," L says, still looking at Mello with those same blank, black eyes. "Calculated, perhaps; exploitative, certainly; but callous and deliberately so, no. Flawed as his methods may have been, Watari was not lying when he said your safety and happiness are our highest priorities."

He stops for a moment, and when Mello continues to say nothing, asks, "have you decided, then? On the offer."

"Yeah," Mello says, slowly turning around. "And I think I've decided to agree to your terms – but with a few of my own."

L cocks his head, expression unchanging.

"First," Mello says, standing up, dirt and leaves on his pants, "if you think I'm going to staying at the orphanage the whole time, then, well, I won't. I'm not staying anywhere within five hundred meters of that albino freak, so don't try to make me. And don't bother about trying to find me a place nearby – I'll get my own place, with my own money."

"Second," he continues, "this isn't going to be a binding occupation – while I'll commit myself to any cases given, I reserve the right to stop working for you if and when I see fit. You already have one successor in the works, and if it eventually turns out Near isn't suitable by himself, there's a crop of potential subjects to groom for the position."

"A bit redundant, considering that the original contract never specified living quarters or required permanency," L says, "but amendable enough. We gave you two conditions; that's two."

"Plus one more," Mello says, "I'm going to enroll in Oxford. I know you have people in their offices, but there's no need to bother – I can get in easily enough, and if for some reason they don't give me a full scholarship, their loss – Cambridge and Imperial are still open."

He pauses after that, looks at L for the first time during the conversation with defiant eyes.

"You are aware, of course," L says, "that working on cases – regardless of the number I allocate to my successors – will probably be a full-time occupation, with little time to devote to other activities."

"I'm aware of that," Mello says. "But I'm also aware that I managed to bring in a number of crucial leads for the Zodiac case with limited resources and only cursory access to Near's databases. I think I can manage a little homework over topics I covered ten years ago. Besides," he adds, "you need someone on the ground – someone to gather data, collect information from where it is instead of letting computers spoon feed it over –"

"We have plenty of police forces and covert agents –"

"And, with a few exceptions, they're _shit," _Mello says, "useless for anything except the most basic of analysis–"

"Is this what this is about, then?" L asks, voice suddenly quiet. "The quality of my subordinates?" and in the light from the flashlight, L's eyes bore into Mello, black and large, unblinkingly penetrating.

"No," Mello says finally, looking away. "It's not –"

"What, then?"

And, as the wind rustles through the grasses, bringing with it the residual winter chill, Mello can only say, so quietly he isn't sure if he is talking to himself or answering L, "it's not about that."

L doesn't say anything more, but he doesn't need to – and perhaps Mello imagines it or perhaps it is an effect of the darkness, nothing more than a trick of the light, but for a moment, Mello swears L smiles as he nods, says, "alright" as he offers Mello a jacket.

"Watari would have my head if you died of pneumonia."

And Mello – despite all his previous anger, despite his still readily-present resentment – takes it, somehow and for some reason, and follows L back to the House, where the first lights of the coming celebration are already being strung.

* * *

Aaah wow, this is the first fic I've finished of this length! I'm not sure how to feel about this...

It's been a lot of fun you guys, thanks for staying this far and I hope you enjoyed the journey! Thanks so much for all your reviews and support and general wonderfulness!


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